Hi I’m So/Retro

When Bad News Comes Quicker

The quiet sanctuary of your family home had felt like a dream. For two weeks, the Golden Circle and your family had wrapped you in warmth, cheering for your sudden, impossible happiness with the Sovereign. Even the cynical nobles who once whispered against you had fallen silent, forced to respect how completely you had captured the King's heart. But dreams are fragile things—and bad news always travels with terrifying speed.

Four hours had passed since your scheduled arrival at the palace.

Your parents and Madeleine had been anxiously waiting by the window, expecting your faithful mechanical dove, Snow, to return with a letter confirming you had stepped safely through the castle gates. You and Jestyn had made a sacred promise to exchange letters the moment you were apart, a small thread of ink to keep you connected. But as the grandfather clock struck midnight, the heavy silence of the night began to morph into pure, suffocating dread.

“Darling! Why hasn’t Snow returned with the letter?” your mother suddenly cried out, her composure fracturing entirely as her voice cracked with panic. “Our Canary promised! They said they would send word the exact moment they arrived!”

“Honey, please, I know… I know,” your father rushed to her side, his own hands shaking as he gripped her shoulders to steady her. “I am already contacting the guards near the borders. I’ve sent men to check the crossroads to see if anyone has seen the carriage!”

Across the room, Madeleine stood frozen, trembling violently as she tried to force the rising anxiety out of her mind. She had watched you leave the mansion so happily, so fiercely determined to return to your King. A sickening, cold knot twisted in her stomach—an undeniable intuition that something terrible had crossed your path.

By two in the morning, the panic had spilled out into the streets, sending a violent shockwave through the Golden Circle. Your father moved heaven and earth, mobilizing the local guard and calling upon every high-ranking connection he possessed to scour the roads. Sensing the sudden, dangerous shift in the atmosphere, a suffocating fear gripped the lower districts. Elders hurried their children inside, locking doors and bolting windows as the chilling realization spread: The King's Songbird was missing.

The Grand Design in the Dark

Miles away, within the grand, silent halls of the royal palace, King Jestyn was waiting.

Everything had been prepared to perfection. The private dining hall was bathed in a warm, golden glow, the tables laden with your absolute favorite meals, delicate desserts, and fresh, vibrant flowers. Jestyn had spent the last two weeks using every ounce of his sovereign authority to handle the high council, successfully rewriting political structures to finally grant you a permanent, protected place by his side in the royal system. He had built a sanctuary for you.

But as the clock chimed past midnight, the warmth of the room died.

The silence became deafening. An alert pinged sharply through his internal systems, his core tightening as the hours bled away without a single sign of you. His mind raced back to your promise, his crimson eyes scanning the empty, moonlit skies for the silver glint of Snow—the mechanical dove he had meticulously crafted and gifted to you so that your voices would never be out of reach.

“Where are you, Songbird…?” Jestyn whispered into the empty room.

His chest rose and fell in ragged, uneven rhythms, a deeply human panic clawing at his mechanical core. He began to pace the floor, his heavy boots clicking sharply against the marble, a terrifying anxiety building in his gears as the clock ticked louder and louder with every passing second. The ghost of his past trauma flared up—the agonizing memory of the war, where everyone he loved had vanished into the ash.

Wizzy sat quietly in the corner, his usual calm demeanor completely shattered. The wizard was always by Jestyn's side for royal meetings and special events, and he had personally witnessed the profound, tender happiness you had brought into the King's frozen life.

“Jestyn… I am certain they are simply delayed,” Wizzy tried to reassure him, though his own voice carried a nervous, fragile edge. He adjusted his robes, sweating under the King's suffocating aura. “Perhaps a carriage wheel broke, or a sudden storm damaged the main crossroads. They will be here.”

But even as he spoke, Wizzy knew the lie in his own words. You loved the King too deeply to ever leave him waiting. You would never willingly risk his wrath, nor would you ever break a promise to the marionette who held your soul.

Something was entirely wrong. And as Jestyn's heartbeat whirred into a dangerous, erratic crescendo, the shadow looming over the palace grew darker than the night itself.

Suddenly, the heavy oak doors of the study slammed open with a deafening bang.

It was Knighter, the Sovereign’s most loyal shield and the highest commander of the marionette military. He was completely out of breath, his armor rattling with a frantic resonance as he rushed into the room, his stern face tight with a gravity that instantly halted the air. King Jestyn snapped to his feet, his massive frame towering over the desk, while Wizzy scrambled up beside him, both alarmed by the sudden, violent intrusion.

“Knighter! What is the meaning of this? Why do you come running?” Jestyn demanded. His tone was sharply serious, a desperate attempt to mask the rising anxiety clawing at his internal systems. Instinctively, his left hand tightened over his right—the arm of cold, unyielding black skin that served as a permanent, bitter reminder of the brutal war he had fought against his treacherous uncle, Crownus, to reclaim his birthright.

Knighter, who always stood as an immovable pillar of military discipline, took a sharp breath to steady his racing core. He delivered the dark news with a voice that Wizzy knew would turn the entire kingdom upside down.

“My King… the royal carriage you dispatched to retrieve Y/N… it has been found empty,” Knighter announced, his metallic voice echoing grimly. “The elite guards assigned to escort them back to the palace have been entirely incapacitated. They were systematically knocked out.”

Jestyn, a monarch who always held his head with an unyielding, iron composure, felt the final threads of his patience snap. A single, pristine tear escaped his glowing crimson eye, tracing down his porcelain cheek before he drew a sharp, furious breath. It was not a breath of despair because you had failed to return; it was a breath of pure, agonizing terror because he knew, with absolute certainty, that his Songbird was in grave danger. Or worse.

“What—what did you say, Knighter?” Wizzy stammered, entirely stunned, his hands trembling as the words refused to compute.

“Knighter, please, tell me this is a cruel jest! Our Songbird would never simply vanish! They gave their sacred word!” Wizzy pleaded, turning to the King to find any shred of logic, his mind racing with the many tender, joyful moments you and Jestyn had shared in this very palace.

“Wizzy, I do not play with the safety of the crown,” Knighter cut him off sternly, refusing to waste precious seconds arguing when he could feel the King’s aura turning lethal. “I rode out on horseback to personally inspect the transit routes. The carriage was abandoned on the border crossroads. The carriage door was violently forced open from the outside.”

As the heated exchange blurred into background noise, the rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock morphed into a deafening roar within Jestyn’s mind. The sudden trauma of absolute loss triggered a violent cascade through his memory bank, pulling his consciousness entirely backward in time.

Seventeen Years Ago

The cinematic memory played in high-definition behind his eyes. He was fifteen years old, standing in the grand courtyard beneath a weeping, slate-gray sky.

He watched his parents preparing to march to the front lines to end the Great War. His father, King Valerius, was a towering, magnificent marionette—fierce like roaring fire and unyielding iron. Beside him stood his mother, Queen Celestia, an ethereal sovereign whose grace was as powerful as the moonlight and as devastating as a sea storm.

Queen Celestia had lost her first two children to the unforgiving childbirth complications; she had nearly lost her own life bringing Jestyn into the world. His very birth had been hailed as the ultimate moment of joy for the kingdom—a miracle child deeply, fiercely loved. She was not about to lose him to the ash.

“Jestyn, my sweet boy,” Celestia whispered, kneeling down so her porcelain face was level with his. She offered him a soft, radiant smile that defied the darkness of the coming war. “We know your heart longs to battle by our side... but you must stay. We will return to you. No matter what the tides bring.”

“But Mother… what if you need my blade?” the young prince argued, his voice cracking with a boyish fear.

King Valerius stepped forward, his heavy, heavy hand coming down to rest firmly on Jestyn’s shoulder. “Son, you are the bravest prince this realm has ever known. We have no doubt of your capability on the battlefield. But we need you to be capable of something greater—protecting the heart of this kingdom while we are gone.”

The two sovereigns pulled their only son into a fierce, suffocatingly tender embrace, holding him as if they silently knew it might be their last time.

“When the Great War is finally won,” Queen Celestia murmured against his hair, “the three of us will ride together into the sunset to celebrate our victory. Would you like that, my love?”

The boy had nodded eagerly, anchoring his entire soul to that beautiful promise.

He had waited. For an entire week, the young prince managed the fracturing kingdom with Wizzy’s careful guidance, despite being 19 years old, his eyes glued to the horizon. But when the heralds finally returned with news of the war's conclusion, his heart didn't celebrate. It shattered into a million jagged pieces. The victory had been bought with the ultimate price. His parents were found on the battlefield, completely devoid of life, yet their porcelain hands remained tightly, eternally locked together. They had left him all alone in a cold world of gears.

** Present Day **

A sharp, ragged gasp tore through Jestyn’s lungs as he slammed both of his massive hands down onto the mahogany desk. The sheer force of the impact splintered the wood, instantly silencing the frantic argument between Wizzy and Knighter. The temperature in the study plummeted to zero.

The gentleman King was gone. In his place stood the terrifying War Sovereign who had clawed his way through ten years of blood and soot to reclaim his throne.

“If this is true…” Jestyn breathed, his voice dropping into a haunting, guttural register that shook the stone foundations of the palace. He ached with a terrifying, hollow desperation to feel your warmth, to hear your voice anchor his erratic gears. “Then CLOSE ALL THE ROADS! SEAL THE BRIDGES!”

“Your Majesty, breathe! Please, stay calm!” Wizzy cried out, instinctively backing away as Jestyn stepped around the ruined desk, his presence entirely overwhelming.

“DO NOT LET A SINGLE SOUL LEAVE THE CAPITAL, KNIGHTER! NOT A SINGLE ONE!” Jestyn roared, his voice fracturing on the edge of a sob, a terrifying mix of fury and heartbreak ripping through his throat.

He advanced on his commander, his crimson eyes burning like dying stars. “INTERROGATE EVERY NOBLE! SEARCH EVERY ESTATE! If there is a single scratch found upon my Songbird…” He drew a sharp, trembling breath through his teeth, his jaw tightening into an iron vice. “...I will reduce this entire kingdom to porcelain dust, and they will pay the price in blood.”

🥀 In the Darkest Pits 🥀

[DNI If you’re sensitive to dark topic or torture of any kind, you can skip to the next part “During the King’s Storm”]

Your eyes fluttered open, heavy and drowsy from the lingering fog of the sleeping drug. A sharp, pounding headache throbbed behind your temples, and a dull, stinging ache pulsed around your wrists. Groaning, you tried to shift, only to feel the cold, unforgiving bite of heavy iron chains securing you tightly against a metallic headboard. Panic snapped you wide awake. You violently wrenched your arms, but the metal only rattled in the dark.

You were trapped in a pitch-black room, the suffocating atmosphere thick with the smell of damp stone and a solitary, flickering oil candle. Your attire was gone, replaced by loose, coarse white nightclothes. Your hair was messy, damp with sweat, and your chest heaved as you tried to catch your breath in the sweltering, windowless space.

“Where the hell am I…?” you murmured, your voice raspy as your eyes scanned the shadows. The architecture was entirely wrong—this wasn't the pristine brass elegance of Jestyn's palace, nor was it the warm, familiar wood of your family estate.

“Welcome home, sweetheart. My silly little Songbird~”

Your breath caught in your throat. That voice. A sickening wave of revulsion washed over you as a figure stepped forward, the low glow of a handheld oil candle illuminating a completely unhinged visage.

It was Duke Julian, and he looked utterly deranged. His vibrant purple hair was pulled back into a messy, high ponytail, with loose, sweat-dampened strands framing a face twisted by obsession. But it was his eyes that sent a chill down your spine—unnatural, electric-green irises that practically glowed with a manic, erratic frenzy in the dim light.

It was a deeply eerie sight; he didn't possess the smooth, predictable mechanical components of a marionette, yet his human expressions were far more volatile and monstrous than any creature of iron and brass. You hated him to your very core. He was the absolute worst of your former suitors—an arrogant noble whose toxic behavior had forced you to become hyper-aware of the true motives of anyone who ever approached you.

“JULIAN!” you hissed, your anger burning right through the remnants of the drug. “What the hell did you do?! How did you find me? My family placed a strict restriction order against you with the local guard!”

“Oooh~ well, let’s just say a highly placed friend gave me a hand to bypass those trivial little laws,” Julian chuckled, walking with a mocking, theatrical grace as if he were preparing to lead a ballroom dance. The candlelight flickered wildly in his electric-green eyes as he stepped up to the edge of the mattress, his lips pulling into a devious, unprompted smirk before he slowly sat down near your ankles.

“I know it was so unfortunate how we ended up, darling... but love deserves a second chance, doesn’t it?” he whispered. “You always presented yourself as so cold, so modest, and flawlessly educated to your laaaarge list of suitors. I truly had hopes that we would find our way back to each other.” He swayed his arm, his fingers suddenly clamping down to hold both of your ankles playfully—like a cruel cat catching a helpless mouse.

“But oh, dear… my blood absolutely boiled the night of your debut gala,” Julian’s voice dropped, his grip tightening into a painful vice. “I watched from the shadows of the King’s pavilion. I hated the way that monstrous machine looked at you. I hated how devoted he became to your voice, your presence, your very breath.”

Julian’s electric eyes snapped, his composure breaking completely into a crazed glare as he drove his fingers painfully into your left ankle. “I thought it was just a provocation! A cheap trick to show the Golden Circle how marvelous and perfect you are! I thought the King would eventually choose a puppet of royal porcelain, not a soft-skin human! Everyone in the courts wants you... but damn it all, when I heard he had welcomed you permanently into his kingdom—”

“—You realized you could never compare to him,” you cut him off, your voice ringing out with a cold, educated venom that instantly sliced through his arrogance.

Julian froze, his jaw tightening as his purple ponytail whipped slightly with the sudden movement.

Your words cut through the heavy silence of the cellar, a stern, determined declaration meant to force him to realize his deepest, most fatal mistake. You leaned forward slightly, the iron chains rattling ominously against the metallic headboard.

“How did you find me, Julian?” you insisted, your voice low and sharp as you clenched your fists tightly. The urge to kick him square in the chest burned through your veins, but he merely smirked, letting out a soft, taunting laugh that sent a shiver down your spine.

“Well… let’s just say we both shared a beautiful coincidence, darling,” Julian murmured, leaning closer as the candle flame danced wildly in his electric-green eyes. “The hand that helped me has their own desperate desires... specifically, for the throne.”

Your eyes widened in sudden, horrifying realization. “Cordelia?!”

Disbelief choked your throat. You knew the Archduchess was arrogant, but you had never imagined she would cross a line this treasonous—risking the destruction of the kingdom just to satisfy her shallow envy.

“You don’t have any idea what the two of you are doing,” you pleaded, the reality of the situation making your chest tighten. “You know what Jestyn is capable of. You know how he—”

SLAP.

The sharp, violent crack of his palm against your face echoed brutally off the damp stone walls. The sheer force of the blow snapped your head to the side, a burst of heat and blinding pain blooming across your cheek. Before you could even catch your breath, Julian’s fingers clamped onto your jaw with a cruel, bruising force, violently wrenching your face back to meet his glare.

“DO NOT SAY HIS NAME!!!” he screamed directly into your face.

His voice hit an erratic, terrifying register, his chest heaving as his grip tightened on your chin. “Don't you dare say that monster’s name! Everyone loves him! Everyone respects him! But I despise him for having your heart!!”

As he roared at you, you looked directly into his face. Up close, the terrifying truth became clear. The veins around his temples were pulsing violently, and his unnatural electric-green pupils were completely blown out and dilated, swallowing his irises. The manic energy radiating off him wasn't just raw obsession—it was chemical.

You recognized the signs instantly. He was heavily drugged on the illicit white powder that only soft-skin humans could consume. A cold, genuine drop of dread sank into your stomach; you weren't just dealing with an arrogant ex anymore. You were chained to a volatile, heavily intoxicated madman who had completely lost his grip on reality.

“Julian… you’re…” you breathed, your voice trembling as you tried to speak about his dangerous consumption.

“Yes… I am still using it! And I will always use it!” he cackled, a dark, breathless sound as he leaned in so close you could feel his erratic breath against your skin. “And you are going to learn to love me just like this.”

The moment the twisted, delusional words left his lips, a spark of pure survival instinct overrode your fear. With a sudden, desperate surge of movement, you clamped your teeth down onto the fleshy meat of his hand, biting into his skin with everything you had left.

Julian let out a sharp, agonizing shriek of pain that pierced through the dark cellar...

“YOU WILL NEVER CHANGE MY MIND AND HEART FOR HIM!” You exclaimed with all your soul and rage this time

“YOURE THE REASON I ALWAYS BE CAREFUL AROUND ON THIS DAMN WORLD” you screamed more louder as you finally break down crying how this could end like this, you didn’t see Jestyn anymore. But you held hope and determined he will find you, no matter what

“Soon he will find you… and oh Lord… you both don’t have any idea what you’re going to deal” you finally say as you stay determined that Snow, the mechanical dove you sent Jestyn, have their letter with the directions your carriage will take since the original road as been damaged. And maybe that’s where they could find you .

During the King’s Storm

It had been two agonizing weeks since the Songbird vanished into thin air.

Everyone within the realm knew that when King Jestyn I was pushed to madness, a terrifying, unnatural storm would brew over the Marionette Kingdom.

The skies hung low, heavy with bruised purple clouds and a suffocating, electrifying chill that made the citizens tremble in their homes. The neighboring soft-skin human empires and the surrounding Fae kingdoms watched in absolute dread, terrified of the slumbering war machine that was slowly waking up. Even the High Fairy Kingdom had broken centuries of isolation to offer their tracking magic, which Jestyn had desperate accepted with Wizzy’s urgent guidance.

In the grand cathedral, High Priest Prieston spent his days sending heavy prayers to the heavens, offering sanctuary and a calm word to the panicked citizens and foreign merchants alike. By royal decree, all weddings, festivals, and courtly celebrations were brought to a grinding halt.

The kingdom was frozen in time, waiting for its heart to be returned.

Knighter had transformed into a glacier of military discipline. He led the royal guard with ruthless, freezing efficiency, checking every square inch of the perimeters. Ships sailing the open seas were boarded and searched, incoming carriages were stripped down to the chassis, and even the most powerful noble mansions were raided under the King’s direct authority. No stone was left unturned.

Meanwhile, Jestyn sat alone in the dark, suffocating silence of his private study. He tried to focus on the endless stacks of political treaties, but his hands wouldn't cooperate. His large, porcelain fingers traced over the delicate golden bird filigree toy he when he first met you since childhood, his core whirring with a profound, aching sorrow. He remembered the phantom warmth of your last embrace, the gentle, desperate sweetness of the kisses you had shared before you boarded. He clung to those memories like a dying man, refusing to believe you had escaped voluntarily. You loved him. He knew you loved him.

With a heavy, mechanical sigh, his black-skinned hand pulled open a hidden drawer, extracting a small velvet box. Inside rested a masterpiece of midnight engineering—a breathtaking ring he had meticulously hand-crafted himself in the lonely, quiet hours of the night. He had been quietly maneuvering the high lords, orchestrating a monumental shift in the noble rankings to elevate you to royalty, entirely bypassing the rigid laws of the Golden Circle. He was preparing to offer you his kingdom.

A sharp, painful click resonated in his chest as a tear threatened to well in his crimson eye. He closed the box, burying it back into the secret drawer and locking it with a sharp twist of a golden key just as a frantic knock rattled his door.

“You may enter, Lucille,” he commanded sternly, quickly pulling his cold, stoic mask back over his features.

But it wasn’t Lucille who crossed the threshold.

“Your Highness! My deepest apologies, I tried to bar her entry!” Lucille gasped, rushing into the room with a pale face, completely helpless as Archduchess Cordelia swept past her.

“Tin-Tin! I heard the terrifying news! I am so, so terribly sorry for your immense loss!” Cordelia cried out, her voice a pitch-perfect imitation of grief as she rushed toward his desk, her silk skirts rustling loudly.

Jestyn’s internal gears ground together in an angry, defensive rhythm, your past warnings about the Archduchess flaring in his mind. He leveled a gaze of pure, freezing iron at the intruder.

“What brings you here, Cordelia? Lucille—you may retire,” he signaled calmly, his voice dangerously low. Lucille offered a hasty bow and quickly shut the heavy doors, leaving them in the dim, tense room.

Cordelia pouted beautifully, her porcelain joints clicking with elegant precision as she slowly sauntered toward his side. “I am just so terribly frightened for you, Your Majesty… Tell me, did the two of you perhaps engage in a bitter quarrel before they retired to the countryside?”

She was testing him, twisting his innermost fears like a knife in an open wound.

“No. We did not quarrel,” Jestyn responded, his voice dropping into a hollow, defeated register. He turned his back to her, stepping toward the massive, arched window to look out over his locked-down capital. “I personally granted them leave. I feared… I feared I was being selfish by keeping them confined to this castle. Perhaps I was a fool to believe a soft-skin’s hand and soul belonged in a world of gears.”

“Oh, that is incredibly mature of you, Your Majesty,” Cordelia purred, her eyes gleaming with a venomous triumph. She took a step closer, her fan snapping open with a sharp clack. “But I cannot help but wonder… did they perhaps view your sudden generosity as a golden opportunity for freedom? Oh, my sweet King… why did you choose to open the birdcage?”

Jestyn’s back went entirely rigid. A suffocating, twisted fear gripped his artificial heart.

Sensing his vulnerability, Cordelia stepped up right behind him, the sweet, cloying scent of her perfume filling his senses as she leaned in, her voice dropping into a cruel, raw hiss. “Maybe they saw it as their only escape. You know how wild birds are, Your Majesty—they never stay for long, no matter how doting, how caring, or how loving their master is. They are ungrateful creatures, aren't they?”

She raised her fan, masking a devious, satisfied smirk as she remembered the secret letter Julian had smuggled to her family estate, confirming you were safely chained beneath his floorboards.

“They aren't like loyal hounds who worship the hand that feeds them. A hound will stay, even if they are broken and harmed by their owner's wrath,” Cordelia whispered, her eyes flashing with a wicked satisfaction. “But you know I will always be loyal to you. I am neither a fickle bird nor a dog, Your Majesty… and I promise I will never abandon you again. I will stay by your side forev—”

“CORDELIA, ENOUGH.”

The roar that ripped from Jestyn’s chest was not human; it was a haunting, metallic vibration that caused the glass panes of the window to rattle violently. Cordelia gasped, stumbling backward in genuine terror. She looked down, her breath hitching as she realized Jestyn’s black-skinned fingers had completely dug into the solid oak window frame, his razor-sharp claws splintering the wood into kindling.

“I have heard quite enough of your poisoned words. You are permitted to stay within the capital boundaries purely for your family's status—but I suggest you return to your estate immediately, Archduchess.”

He slowly turned around, his crimson eyes glowing with a lethal, unholy light that made his porcelain skin look like a death mask. “Unless, of course, you possess actual, verified answers regarding the whereabouts of my Songbird.”

Right on cue, the heavy doors opened, and Knighter stepped into the room like a looming shadow of death.

“Knighter. Escort Lady Cordelia to the palace gates. Personally,” Jestyn commanded, his voice a freezing current.

Knighter offered a rigid, militaristic nod, stepping aside to wait for her. Cordelia swallowed hard, her confidence entirely shattered by the terrifying aura of the King.

She gathered her dignity, offering a tight, clipped curtsy. “I only hope you realize your grave mistakes before it is too late, Your Majesty. Come find me when you finally accept the truth.” With a sharp huff, she swept out of the room.

The silence that followed her departure was crushing. Left alone with his thoughts, a somber, agonizing pain settled deep into Jestyn's core. Was she right? Was it the nature of a human to crave the open sky, completely untethered to a creature made of iron and ash? Had you boarded a ship to some far-off continent where his shadow could never reach you? He let out a frustrated, guttural growl, slamming his fist against the wall before retreating into the deeper, darker wings of the palace.

Hours bled into midnight. Unable to sleep, the sleepless King wandered through the empty, echoing corridors until his feet unconsciously brought him to the threshold of your private chambers.

He pushed the door open. The room was exactly as you had left it—a painful museum of your presence. He looked upon your unfinished canvas paintings, your charcoal sketches, and the beautiful silk gowns he had personally curated and gifted to you.

Stepping toward the wardrobe, he gently lifted one of your discarded cloaks, burying his face into the soft fabric. He inhaled deeply, his internal systems whirring in agony as the faint, lingering scent of your floral perfume and sweet skin filled his senses. He closed his eyes, desperately conjuring the memory of how you used to throw your arms around his neck, looking up at him with pure, unadulterated affection.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The sharp, rhythmic sound against the window glass broke the silence.

Jestyn startled, his crimson eyes snapping open as he accidentally dropped the cloak to the floor. He spun around, his breath catching in his throat as his vision locked onto the windowpane. His pupils dilated in sheer, breathy shock.

Perched on the marble sill, illuminated by the pale moonlight, was a small, silver figure.

It was Snow.

The mechanical dove was completely worn out, its pristine metallic feathers covered in soot, dirt, and dried mud. Its internal brass clockwork was wheezing loudly, emitting tiny puffs of steam as if it had been flying through a hellish storm for days on end, desperately waiting for someone to open the glass.

“Snow…?” Jestyn whispered, a sudden, blinding wave of relief crashing through his chest. He sprinted across the room, his long strides eating up the distance as he threw the heavy glass window open.

He reached out, his massive hands trembling with a profound, terrifying tenderness as he cradled the exhausted mechanical bird against his chest. “Shh, shh… it is alright, little one. You are safe. You are home. Let me look at you…”

As he gently stroked the dove's dented silver wings, his eyes caught the small, cylinder canister attached to its leg. His breath hitched. It was the letter. The letter you had sent exactly two weeks ago—the very night you disappeared.

With frantic, trembling fingers, Jestyn set Snow down onto the soft velvet of your bed. He unrolled the tightly coiled parchment, his crimson eyes rapidly scanning the elegant, familiar handwriting of his beloved.

The moment his eyes read the words—detailing the sudden, forced route change near the border and the strange directives of a rogue guard—his entire body went into a profound, terrifying shock. A brilliant, feral smile broke across his porcelain face, his gears roaring into a thunderous, triumphant crescendo.

He hadn't been abandoned.

You hadn't flown away. You had been ripped from him.

The War King looked up from the letter, his eyes burning with a sudden, catastrophic fire that promised absolute annihilation. He had the map. He had the path. And god help anyone standing between the monster and his Songbird.

———————————————

A Father’s Love

A profound, radiant happiness washed over you as you sat in the secluded pavilion. You still couldn't entirely believe your eyes; Jestyn had orchestrating this beautiful, impossible surprise, pulling the strings behind the scenes to safely bring your father into the palace grounds. You deeply missed your mother too, but you understood the wisdom in this secrecy—neither Jestyn nor your father wanted to cause a massive political commotion among the prying eyes of the Golden Circle.

“Father, how is everyone at home? How is Mother... and how is Madeleine?” you asked, a tender, desperate hope shining in your eyes as you leaned across the table.

Your father let out a long, heavy sigh, his eyes welling with the sheer magnitude of how much he had missed you. When you were first taken from the debut gala, he had been ready to tear the kingdom apart, working tirelessly alongside the high lords to mount a rescue. Thankfully, your regular letters, carried safely by your faithful mechanical dove, Snow, had quieted the storm in his heart before it was too late.

“My little Canary,” he murmured, reaching across the table to catch your hands in his warm, familiar grip.

“I must admit... the estate feels entirely empty and cold without your melody. Your mother has been so deeply depressed, barely finding the strength to stand, though Madeleine has been an absolute angel in helping her through the darkest days. As for me...” He squeezed your fingers, his voice cracking slightly.

“I have missed you terribly. You have no conception of the agony of not knowing if you were safe.”

“Dad… I was terrified at first, too,” you reassured him gently, squeezing his hands back.

“But please, believe me. Jestyn is not the monstrous tyrant the kingdom fears. Yes, he wields a terrifying, unyielding power... but after everything he has endured, he still possesses a heart.”

Your father let out a long, calming breath, the tension finally leaving his shoulders. A soft, knowing smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

“That is an immense relief, Canary. I must confess, for a time I feared he was forcing you to write those beautiful words in your letters. I never imagined... I never truly thought you would fall in love.” He paused, his gaze softening into pure parental protectiveness.

“Has he mistreated you in any way? Has he forced you into anything against your will?”

“No, Father. Never,” you replied instantly, a warm, traitorous blush creeping up your neck. Your heart fluttered rapidly as a wave of dreamy, overwhelming memories rushed through your mind.

You remembered the quiet afternoons in his private study, where the fierce King would patiently guide your hands over intricate clockwork schematics just to share a moment of connection. You remembered the heavy heat of the Midsummer Gala, where he had brazenly pulled you onto his lap, using his massive frame to shield you from the court’s judgment

And most vividly, you remembered yesterday—when you had scraped your hands in the garden holding your anger at Cordelia’s words. Jestyn had gone entirely into a frantic, protective 'Crisis Mode,' lifting you in his large arms as if you were a fragile, wounded bird, his cool black inner skin pressing tenderly against your skin as he personally cleansed and bandaged your minor injuries with the softest silk.

“He can be cold as winter toward the rest of the world, Father,” you whispered, your eyes casting downward with a dreamy, unmistakable glow.

“But with me... he is as soft and beautiful as a gentle snowfall. He protects me with his entire soul.” You paused, looking up directly into your father's eyes. The slight hesitation vanished, replaced by a fierce, undeniable clarity.

“I admire him more than words can describe, Dad. It’s not just gratitude for his protection... it is a deep, irreversible love. He is a King built of iron, gears, and porcelain armor, yet when he is with me, his touch is gentler than any soft-skin human I have ever known. He treats my life as his absolute kingdom, and I have willingly given him the key. I love him, Father. With everything I am.”

Your father watched you, a bittersweet realization washing over him.

He was the man who had held you the moment you entered this world. His mind briefly drifted back twenty-five years, remembering the exact moment the healers had placed you in his trembling arms. You had been such a tiny, fragile newborn baby, crying at the sudden coldness of the world until he cradled you against his chest and began to hum a soft, low melody.

You had instantly quieted, your tiny fingers wrapping tightly around his thumb. He had wept tears of pure, radiant happiness that day, swearing an oath to the heavens that he would spend the rest of his life protecting you and your song.

He had kept that promise. As you grew, he became the anchor to your creative soul. He fondly remembered the toddler who would refuse to sleep unless they were clutching the golden filigree toy he had meticulously crafted for them.

He remembered proudly buying you every single sketchpad, charcoal stick, and artistic tool you ever begged to learn, never caring about the messy paint smudges you left on his expensive noble cloaks. The two of you had spent countless hours simply sitting side-by-side on the veranda of the family estate, watching the wild birds migrate and listening to the finches sing.

He knew your expressions perfectly—and he had never seen you look at a classic painting or a priceless sculpture with the kind of profound, soulful adoration you now held for the Marionette King.

“Darling... you are completely in love with him, aren’t you?” your father questioned softly...

You instantly choked on your tea, coughing into your napkin as your flawless noble composure shattered entirely. In front of the Golden Circle, you were an unmovable shield of etiquette, but alone with your father, you were just his child.

“Father!!” you hissed, your cheeks burning a brilliant crimson. “I think it is far too soon to even think of such things!”

“Well, we shall see about that,” he chuckied warmly, his smile turning deeply sentimental.

“But please, my Canary, consider one important piece of advice from your father. If you do marry him, ensure it is because your hearts are truly bound as one. Do not do it for crowns, privileges, or titles. Do it for love... just as I did with your mother.”

The Legacy of the Songbird

A soft smile graced your lips. You had always loved hearing the story of how your parents met, and how it had given you the very name your father still used to anchor you to your roots.

They had both been high-born nobles, but they rejected the shallow, rigid expectations of the court. Your father had dedicated his youth to teaching children and teenagers, instilling a deep love for art, history, and culture in the younger generation. Your mother had been a legendary muse—a woman of such striking grace that master sculptors and painters begged her to model for them. But her true beauty lay in her secret life, where she spent her days donating her time and wealth to local orphanages and schools.

The day they met, your mother had volunteered to model a live portrait for your father’s advanced art students. Your father had been entirely stunned the moment she walked into the classroom—not just by her ethereal beauty, but by her radiant personality. She had immediately sat on the floor with the children, laughing warmly and helping them mix their vibrant paints without a single care for her expensive silk skirts.

To keep the children entertained while they sketched, she had begun to sing. Her voice was a breathtaking, crystal-clear melody that filled the dusty studio with an effortless, golden warmth. Your father had stood frozen at his easel, entirely captivated.

When the class finally ended, he had walked up to her, completely enchanted, and murmured, “Madame, you sing with the pure, unburdened soul of a wild canary.”

She had blushed beautifully, and from that very afternoon, their hearts were bound forever. When you were born, inheriting that exact same soulful grace and love for music, your father had looked down at you and known instantly that you were his little Canary—the continuation of the beautiful melody that had brought your family together.

“You must protect that spark, Canary,” your father added gently, breaking you out of your reverie.

“I will, Dad… I promise,” you replied warmly, a soft smile lingering on your lips until a rhythmic, elegant stride echoed along the stone path.

The Sovereign’s Grace

Jestyn walked gracefully toward the pavilion, his towering frame cutting a striking figure against the dappled afternoon light. The terrifying aura he usually held for the court was entirely absent, replaced by a quiet, serene composure.

“Your Majesty... thank you for this,” you murmured, bowing your head in a gesture of profound gratitude. “I will always cherish what you did today.”

Your father stepped forward, offering a respectful bow of his own. “You have my deepest gratitude, Sire.”

Jestyn’s crimson eyes softened as he looked down at you, then shifted to your father.

“Songbird, I must admit... your father’s resilience and devotion to you is a powerful thing. I know the heavy burden of worry you have carried for your family's safety. To ease those fears, I have decided to grant you leave. You may return to your family estate for two weeks.”

Your eyes widened in utter disbelief. He was letting you leave? For a full fortnight, you would be free to soothe your mother’s sorrow, hold Madeleine, and see the friends you had left behind in the Golden Circle?

“Jestyn… are you certain?” you asked, your voice a surprised whisper as you stepped closer to his broad chest.

“Are you not worried about the rumors? What the high lords of the Golden Circle will say if they see me leave the palace gates?” You said as you saw his face

“My little Canary, the King and I have already spoken at length, and he has fully consented,” your father intervened gently, his voice carrying a reassuring warmth. Your father said with certainty and trust.

“Indeed, my Songbird,” Jestyn murmured, his voice a low, melodious chime. He reached out, the smooth porcelain of his fingers gently cupping your cheek.

“Aside from your happiness, there are pressing... administrative arrangements I must personally oversee within the capital. It is best you are safely tucked away in your family's care while I reshape certain structures. I want you protected, but I also want you whole.”

Your father watched the interaction closely, a quiet revelation dawning in his eyes as he noted the sheer reverence in the King's touch. The monstrous, arrogant tyrant from the rumors did not exist here—only a sovereign utterly consumed by the well-being of his muse.

What you didn't realize was that the 'arrangements' Jestyn spoke of had very little to do with standard court politics. Behind his calm, calculated expression, the King was setting a grand design into motion.

He was quietly preparing a monumentous, irreversible shift in the kingdom's hierarchy—a beautiful surprise meant to legally and permanently bind your futures together. But for now, he kept the secret locked tight behind heart.

“Alright, Your Majesty. I accept,” you said, your heart fluttering with a bittersweet ache at the thought of leaving his side, even for a short time.

“But I promise to return to you as soon as the two weeks have passed. As long as my family remains safe.”

“Do not trouble your mind with such thoughts, Songbird. Everything is under my absolute command,” Jestyn whispered. He leaned down, his cool lips pressing a lingering, possessive kiss to your forehead—a silent promise of ownership that followed you all the way out of the palace gates.

The Sanctuary of Home

The day your royal carriage rolled into the noble district, the Golden Circle erupted into a frenzy of whispers. The elite were entirely shocked and relieved to see you return unharmed, and the court gossip quickly turned fierce. Rumors of a true, impossible romance began to consume the salons, with nobles whispering in awe of how a marionette king made of iron and ash could lose his heart to a soft-skin human.

But you ignored the court's prying eyes. Your only focus was the heavy oak doors of the mansion.

The moment the carriage came to a halt, the front doors burst open. Madeleine stood on the threshold, her eyes widening in pure amazement before she let out a breathless gasp.

“My Lord/Lady! You... you have come home!” she cried, throwing all noble decorum to the wind as she rushed down the steps, her arms lifting to embrace you in a fierce, desperate hug.

You wrapped your arms tightly around her, a brilliant smile breaking across your face as you rubbed her back, trying to soothe the hot, happy tears spilling onto your shoulder.

“Madeleine!! I am here, I promise! I am doing perfectly fine!” As Madeleine slowly stepped back to give you space, your gaze drifted past her toward the sunlit garden entryway.

Standing beneath the floral archway was your mother. She froze, staring at you as if she were looking at a ghost materializing from the summer mist.

“Little Canary?… My baby?” she choked out, her voice a fragile, trembling thread as her hand flew to her chest.

A heavy, emotional ache squeezed your throat as you realized just how deeply the depression of losing you had broken her spirit. Suddenly, twenty-five years of memories flashed through your mind in a beautiful, chaotic rush—you saw the toddler who used to clumsily chase butterflies through these exact gardens, always running straight into her open arms whenever you tripped.

Without a second thought, you sprinted across the lawn.

You collided with her, throwing your arms around her neck and holding her with every ounce of strength you possessed. Your mother let out a raw, sobbing cry, her knees buckling beneath the sheer weight of her relief as the two of you fell together onto the soft green grass.

“My baby!!! You came back to me!!!” she wept, burying her face into your hair, her hands frantically tracing your shoulders and back as if to assure herself that your warmth was real, and that her beloved Canary had finally returned to the nest.

Long Live the Clumsy Canary

The grass was still damp against your clothes when the tears finally cleared, replaced by the warmth of a home you thought you might never see the same way again. For the first few days, the mansion was a fortress of privacy.

Your mother refused to let you out of her sight, and Madeleine fussed over your meals as if trying to make up for every day you had spent away in the quiet, ethereal halls of the Sanctuary.

But a Canary cannot be hidden away for long, especially not one that had flown straight into the heart of the iron king's court and returned to tell the tale.

Once the initial shock of your return settled, the outside world came knocking. Your sudden arrival had set the high society salons ablaze, and before the week was out, the silver tray in the foyer was overflowing with cream-colored envelopes, gold-embossed invitations, and frantic notes from your social circle. You had become, overnight, the most fascinating figure in the entire kingdom.

In fact, the rumors had become so aggressively unhinged that your parents were practically under siege. At her weekly bridge club, your mother was cornered by a frantic Duchess who leaned in and whispered fiercely.

“[Your Mother’s Name], darling, we are so glad your baby is back. But be honest. When you hug them... does it sound like a sack of loose silverware? Do they require oiling before bed?”

Your mother, entirely done with the nonsense, had simply taken a calm sip of her tea and replied, “The only thing requiring oil, Beatrice, is the rusty hinge of your jaw. My child is perfectly soft, perfectly human, and currently eating us out of house and home.”

Your father hadn't escaped the madness either; he was cornered at the gentlemen's lounge by local merchants demanding to know if King Jestyn truly ate liquid gold.

“Gentlemen, if the King of the Realm survived on a diet of precious metals, our tax rates would be a lot worse. Now, let me play my hand in peace.” He had just sighed, rubbing his temples, and told them

Even the neighbors were losing their minds. Madam Vane, obsessed with her pristine hedges, practically fell through the rosebushes when she saw your father tending the garden, shouting to ask if you still used the bathroom or if the Iron King had those "biological necessities" magically removed for courtly elegance.

The next day, when you sneezed loudly while sitting on the veranda, the neighbor's elderly gardener dropped his shears in pure terror, patted his chest, and yelled to his assistant, “Did you hear that?! It didn't rattle! The lungs are still organic! Praise the Saints!”

The true whirlwind began on a sun-drenched Tuesday afternoon when you finally stepped out to meet your closest friends for tea.

The moment you walked into the private garden of the tea salon, the collective gasp from the tables was audible. Your friends jumped to their feet, a chaotic flurry of silken skirts and clinking porcelain as they rushed to surround you.

"We thought you were a statue!" one cried, grabbing your hands and turning them over, half-expecting to find polished wood instead of warm skin.

"The streets were saying you’d been hollowed out and filled with clockwork magic!" The moment you sat down, your friend Karla stared at you completely unblinkingly for a full two minutes.

When you finally asked her what on earth she was doing, she groaned and threw a macaron at you. "Dammit! You blinked! Raquel bet me ten silver pieces that you’d learned how to sleep with your eyes wide open like those creepy court marionettes. You just ruined my shoe budget."

Later, you accidentally tripped over a rug while carrying a tray of biscuits, sending them flying.

Instead of rushing to help, your friends burst into applause, and Lady Raquel cheered, "See? Absolute proof! If the King had turned you into a flawless, graceful puppet, you wouldn't have just taken out a side table. Long live the clumsy, human Canary!"

You laughed, a bright, clear sound that immediately shattered the heavy, gothic mystique the public had built around you. Over steaming cups of Earl Grey and tiers of delicate pastries, you spent the afternoon systematically dismantling every unhinged rumor that had gripped the city.

You mocked the idea of King Jestyn’s "vampiric gold diet," describing instead a quiet, deeply observant monarch who appreciated literature and profound silence. You laughed off the horror stories of your stay, proving with every animated gesture and bite of cake that you were vibrantly, undeniably human.

By the time the sun began to dip below the horizon, the tone of the gathering had completely shifted. Your friends listened with wide, breathless eyes as you painted a picture of the Sanctuary not as a haunted cage, but as a place of intricate, fierce devotion.

Word of your casual dismissals spread like wildfire through the noble district. The upper echelons of society couldn't get enough of you. Suddenly, an afternoon tea or a high-society gala wasn't considered a success unless the "Canary of the Sanctuary" was on the guest list.

Porcelain Rumors and Velvet Traps

The glittering whirlwind of high society was exhilarating, but as the days bled into a second week, the pulling ache in your chest only grew stronger. You loved the laughter, the tea parties, and the warmth of your family mansion, but your soul remained anchored to a quiet library and a king made of iron and ash.

On your final evening, the dining room was quiet, stripped of the neighborhood’s frantic gossip. You sat between your mother and Madeleine, gently taking their hands across the polished wood table.

“I need you both to understand something,” you began softly, looking into your mother’s fragile, anxious eyes. “I am not disappearing forever. I am not a ghost, and I am not a prisoner. The Sanctuary is my choice, but this is still my home.”

“But Canary…” your mother choked out, her fingers tightening around yours. “The distance… the thought of you behind those heavy gates…”

“I will write to you constantly, I promise,” you reassured her, a tender, grounding smile on your face.

“And I will visit. But I am happy, Mother. Incredibly happy. Seeing you both well, knowing you are safe here—it gives me the strength to follow my own heart. Please, trust me.”

Madeleine squeezed your hand, a tear rolling down her cheek as she nodded. “If that strange, quiet court makes you shine this brightly, My Lord/Lady… then we will hold the fort here until your next letter arrives.”

The farewell the next morning was filled with tight, lingering hugs and quiet promises whispered into the summer mist. As your carriage pulled away from the mansion, you leaned against the velvet cushions, letting out a soft sigh of contentment. You were going back to him. You were going home.

But the peaceful silence didn't last.

An hour into the journey, just as the city buildings began to thin into the heavily forested roads leading toward the Sanctuary’s perimeter, the carriage violently jerked to a halt. The horses shrieked, the sharp cracking of a whip and the sound of scuffling hooves cutting through the quiet woods.

Before you could reach for the window to call out to the driver, the carriage door was violently thrown open.

Standing in the threshold was a face you had hoped to never see again—Julian. He was roughly your own age, a wealthy, arrogant noble whose pale skin made his striking features look almost like marble in the dimming light. Framed by a messy mane of deep, black-violet hair, his intense green eyes burned with a mixture of pure, desperate obsession and unhinged rage as he looked down at you.

"Julian?" you gasped, your breath catching as you recoiled into the shadows of the carriage. "What is the meaning of this? Get away from me!"

"I told you before you left, you pathetic little bird," Julian spat, his voice a venomous hiss as he stepped inside.

"You belong in a noble house, not playing house with an marionette freak in a graveyard of toys. Did you really think I’d just let a doll keep what is mine?" his tall frame completely blocking out the sunlight.

"I don't belong to you, Julian! I never did!" you shouted, pressing yourself flat against the back seat, looking around desperately for any way to escape.

But there was no time. Before the words could fully leave your lips, Julian lunged forward into the cramped carriage. A heavy, chemical-soaked velvet cloth was violently slammed over your face, clamping down hard against your nose and mouth.

You thrashed wildly, your fingers tearing at his wrists, but the sickly sweet, suffocating fumes filled your lungs instantly. Julian’s triumphant, mocking face and those piercing green eyes began to blur and warp. The shadows of the carriage swirled into a heavy, suffocating blackness, and within seconds, your strength completely vanished, plunging you into an unconscious void.

The Rival in Pink and Perfection

The atmosphere in the royal rose garden shattered the moment she stepped through the brass arches. Everyone stared in a stunned, suffocating silence at Archduchess Cordelia. She was the epitome of marionette perfection and toxic elegance—a creature carved from flawless, pale pink porcelain, dressed in cascading layers of matching silk and sharp lace. Countless women within the Golden Circle and across neighboring kingdoms envied her flawless design, yet they were utterly terrified to ever cross her path.

Cordelia snapped her painted silk fan open with a sharp, violent clack, fanning herself with slow, deliberate grace as she sashayed confidently through the ongoing tea party.

“Aaah, just like the old times…” she murmured, her voice sounding like a sweet, yet chillingly hollow music box.

“I remember so vividly when I used to walk these very paths with Her Majesty—may Queen Celestia rest in peace and eternal glory. She absolutely adored my mother and me. We practically ruled these gardens.”Her porcelain joints clicked smoothly as she surveyed the pavilion.

The surrounding nobles shifted uncomfortably, a few giving hurried, sycophantic curtsies and nods of forced gratitude just to appease her arrival. But beneath her sugary tone, you felt an immediate, piercing coldness.

You had heard hushed whispers about her past. Cordelia’s mother, the Archduchess Violet, had been the late Queen Celestia’s most trusted Chief Lady-in-Waiting—the two had been as close as sisters. Because of that ancient bond, Cordelia had spent her childhood running through these halls alongside a young Prince Jestyn. There had even been heavy political arrangements for a future marriage between them.

But when the soot fell, and Jestyn’s parents suffered their tragic downfall, Cordelia’s family didn't stay to fight. Her father had cowardly packed their wealth and fled to a distant kingdom, refusing to risk their pristine porcelain skin for a broken crown. Now that Jestyn had bled for his throne, rebuilt the empire, and cleared the ashes, Cordelia had suddenly returned—hateful, selfish, and utterly determined to claim the title of Queen that she felt was rightfully hers.

“Archduchess Cordelia, it is a true pleasure to welcome you back,” you spoke up, your voice steady, projecting the flawless, elegant composure of a discreet noble. “How was your long return from the safe havens of the outer kingdoms?”

A collective, terrified breath was sucked out of the court. Beside you, Mary’s face went entirely pale, and even Wizzy the Wizard stiffened, his eyes wide with shock at how smoothly and pointedly you had just called out her past abandonment.

The Crack in the Porcelain

“And what is a little soft-skin human doing, speaking so familiarly in a palace of iron and gears?” Cordelia hissed, stepping directly into your personal space, the scent of heavy, artificial rose perfume nearly choking you.

“I suppose the King needed a temporary plaything to amuse his ears while the court was empty. But a Songbird belongs in a cage, darling. Not at a table meant for a future Sovereign/King/Queen.” She looked down her nose at your fresh summer attire, her fan clicking shut against her palm like a weapon.

A collective, terrified breath was sucked out of the court. Beside you, Mary’s face went entirely pale, and even Wizzy the Wizard stiffened.

You forced your expression to remain like unyielding marble, but beneath the table, your hands clenched into tight fists against the fabric of your trousers. A sudden, violent rush of heat flooded your chest—not from desire this time, but from pure, unadulterated fury. For years, you had been trained to shield your emotions behind art, music, and perfect noble etiquette. You knew how to handle petty court jealousy.

But Cordelia wasn't finished. Seeing that her insults weren't making you cry, her painted smile turned utterly malicious.

“Though, I suppose I shouldn't expect any better from a family like yours,” Cordelia continued, her voice dripping with artificial pity as she leaned in closer, ensuring the surrounding nobles could hear every biting word.

“The [Your Middlename] name... a house of desperate, fragile humans. I’ve heard the rumors, darling. Your father is practically begging at the palace gates, sending frantic letters like a dog barking for its lost bone. How pathetic it must be, to belong to a bloodline so weak they cannot even protect their own asset from a sovereign's whim.” She looked at you with a witty smile and pout mocking about your father.

That was it.

The elegant shield of the discreet noble cracked. A dangerous, blind rage sparked in your eyes, your body vibrating with a sudden, violent heat. You stood up, your chair scraping sharply against the stone floor. Your heart hammered against your ribs, the urge to let your anger completely shatter your composure sitting right on the tip of your tongue.

But you didn't snap. For twenty-five years, your family had trained you in the highest arts of diplomacy, poetry, and courtly warfare. You breathed out the fire in your chest, forcing your posture to straighten into an unyielding, regal line. When you looked down at the pink archduchess, your eyes were like ice.

“A bloodline is only as weak as its honor, Archduchess,” you replied, your voice ringing out with a calm, educated clarity that echoed perfectly across the quiet pavilion.

“My father writes out of deep, protective devotion—a concept that must feel entirely foreign to a house that packs its wealth and flees across borders the moment a kingdom bleeds.” You crossed arms as you looked at Cordelia’s face

A collective, terrified gasp rippled through the gathered nobles. Cordelia’s painted smile froze.

“You speak of cages and sovereign whims,” you continued smoothly, stepping around the table with an effortless, graceful composure that left her staring.

“Yet you forget that while some are left behind to preserve the crown, others merely hide in the safety of outer realms until the soot has been cleared by hands stronger than their own. If my presence here is a whim, it is one that has earned the absolute trust of the throne. I wonder... can your family's history say the same?” You smiled gently even if you felt your heartbeat beating faster after her attempt to crack your dignity.

Cordelia had expected a fragile, soft-skin human to break out into tears or a vulgar display of anger. Instead, you had used perfect, flawless noble education to completely strip away her arrogance, exposing her family's historical cowardice in front of the entire Golden Circle.

Before her painted lips could part to offer a furious defense, the entire garden went dead silent.

The air temperature in the pavilion plummeted in an instant. A deep, heavy shadow stretched across the stone path, swallowing Cordelia’s bright pink silk in a blanket of absolute darkness. Then came the sound—a low, ominous, mechanical rumble of internal clockwork vibrating through the floorboards, so powerful it made the porcelain teacups rattle.

The Sovereign had arrived.

Every single noble in the vicinity dropped to their knees, their foreheads pressed against the grass in terror. You stopped, your breath catching in your throat as you felt a massive, cool presence materialize directly behind you.

King Jestyn loomed over the scene, his 215cm frame casting a terrifying silhouette under the afternoon sun. His crimson eyes weren't glowing with their usual soft devotion; they were burning with a cold, predatory fire, fixed entirely on the trembling Archduchess.

The King’s Shadow

“Good evening, my fellow nobles, and—”

Jestyn’s deep, melodic voice cut off abruptly. His crimson gaze widened slightly, freezing as his eyes locked onto Cordelia. For a split second, the cold sovereign looked upon the little noble girl who used to chase mechanical butterflies beside him in this very garden—the daughter of the woman his mother had trusted above all others.

But the nostalgia vanished as quickly as it had arrived, replaced by an icy, unyielding stone mask. His internal clockwork whirred with a low, uncomfortable tension as the bitter memories of the war flooded his gears. He remembered the grueling ten years of blood, ash, and soot.

He remembered the grueling ten years of blood, ash, and soot. He remembered how he and his father’s last loyal followers had bled to reclaim the kingdom, all while Cordelia’s father, Duke Cesar, acted like a complete coward—abandoning the rightful bloodline the moment Crownus seized the crown.

“Archduchess Cordelia,” Jestyn spoke, his voice dropping into a dangerously serious, hollow register that made the surrounding roses tremble. “Good evening. It has indeed been a long time.”

“Jestyn! My Tin-Tin—!” Cordelia’s painted lips gasped out the forbidden childhood nickname before she could stop herself, her voice a high, desperate squeak.

“I mean… Your Majesty! It has been so terribly long…” Realizing her massive blunder in front of the entire court, her porcelain joints clicked frantically as she tried to correct her composure.

Blinded by her own desperate ambition, she ignored the chilling warning in his eyes and hurried forward, her pink silk skirts rustling as she reached out to throw her arms around him for a familiar embrace.

But the hug never happened.

The moment she stepped within his shadow, Jestyn took a deliberate, freezing step backward. His posture stiffened into a rigid, military line, his hand dropping casually to the pommel of his ceremonial sword as if he were facing an enemy on the battlefield rather than a lady of the court.

The rejection was absolute. A heavy, suffocating wave of shame rippled through the pavilion. Every noble present kept their heads pressed to the dirt, too terrified to look up, while beside you, Mary and Wizzy winced at the sheer, public humiliation of the Archduchess.

Cordelia was left frozen mid-air, her arms awkwardly extended toward a King who looked at her as if she were nothing more than a piece of discarded brass.

“Archduchess…” Jestyn’s voice dropped, carrying a chilling weight that froze the air in the room.

“I am your King. I do not permit casual touch from anyone, save for the very few I choose to trust.” He remained cold and flawlessly elegant, looking down at Cordelia with a piercing gaze.

“My apologies, Your Highness,” Cordelia murmured quickly. A nervous tremor underlying her elegant smile betrayed her panic.

Shame burned on her cheeks; she was visibly shaken, having realized just how close Jestyn had come to drawing his sword on her as if she were an immediate threat. “I merely became nostalgic… overjoyed to see you again. It reminded me of our childhood, when we used to embrace.”

Wishing to escape the suffocating tension, she hurriedly moved to take her seat for tea. The surrounding nobles immediately broke into hushed, furious gossiping, while Cordelia’s closest confidante quickly leaned in, trying to soothe the Archduchess's burning frustration.

Meanwhile, the butlers scrambled in a frenzy to arrange the grand, specialized chair reserved for the King.

You stood entirely frozen, your heart hammering against your ribs. A stunned shock held you captive—you had fully expected a bloody massacre the moment Jestyn’s hand had gripped his hilt. Before you could even process the danger passing, Jestyn turned his back on the court and stepped directly into your space.

“Your Grace… Your Majesty, it is an honor to welcome you. I was only just greeting the Archduchess, and—” Your words stumbled out in a rush, but they were cut short.

Jestyn stepped closer, drowning out the rest of the room. With surprising gentleness, he reached up and tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear.

“Are you alright, my songbird?” he asked softly, his eyes scanning your face before dropping lower. “Your hands are shaking… and there is blood. Let me see.”

Without waiting for permission, he took your right hand, turning it palm-up in his. You hadn't even realized what you’d done. The sheer rage of hearing Cordelia insult your father had driven you to claw your own skin.

You hadn't cared when she called you a 'pet'—you knew the truth of what you and Jestyn shared—but the slight against your father had made you squeeze your eyes shut and dig your nails in until the skin split. Now, raw crescent marks welled with crimson.

Across the room, Mary gasped, instinctively stepping forward to rush to your aid. But Wizzy caught her arm, giving a subtle, knowing shake of his head, silently demanding she let the King handle it.

“Your Majesty… I am perfectly fine,” you pleaded in a hushed whisper, a hot blush creeping up your neck from the sheer embarrassment of his undivided attention.

“No, you are not,” Jestyn countered, his voice leaving no room for argument as he cradled your hand.

“Mary, bring the bandages for my songbird’s hands. Immediately.” He looked over his shoulder, his royal authority snapping back into place

As the butlers finally finished adjusting his specialized chair, Jestyn ignored it entirely, focusing solely on tending to you. Around the parlor, the whispers of the nobility died down into stunned, breathless silence. Watching the notoriously ruthless King handle you with such fierce, protective devotion, no one could deny the magnetic chemistry sparking between the two of you.

The Assembly of the Court

Jestyn did not wait for Mary to bring the bandages to him. With an efficient, possessive authority that brooked no delay, he took the medical silk straight from her hands the moment she neared, dismissing her with a single, sharp tilt of his chin.

He didn't care that the eyes of the entire parlor were fixed on them. He didn't care that Cordelia was watching, her elegant smile completely frozen into a mask of bitter disbelief. To Jestyn, the entire room had shrunk down to the raw, crimson crescents on your palm.

"Sit," he commanded softly, though it wasn't a request.

Instead of guiding you to one of the standard parlor chairs, Jestyn took his place in the grand, specialized seat the butlers had just frantically prepared for him. Before you could take a step back to find your own place, his hand securely encircled your waist. With a seamless, unyielding tug, he lifted you effortlessly, pulling you straight down onto his lap.

A collective, breathless gasp rippled through the gathering of nobles. To sit on the King’s lap in the middle of a formal court function was an unheard-of breach of traditional etiquette—but Jestyn made the rules, and his grip on you was absolute, anchoring you against his chest like a prize he had no intention of releasing.

"Your Majesty..." you whispered, your face burning a furious crimson as you felt the heavy silk of his royal robes beneath you, the heat of his body radiating through your clothes.

"Everyone is looking..."

"Let them look," Jestyn murmured, his voice a low, gravelly baritone that vibrated against your back. "Let them learn exactly what happens to those who cause you discomfort."

His long, elegant fingers were incredibly meticulous as he began to clean the shallow cuts. He blew softly over your palm, his cool breath soothing the stinging skin before he wrapped the white linen tightly around your hand, securing it with a firm, protective knot. He pressed a lingering, possessive kiss directly against the center of the fresh bandage, his eyes locking onto yours with a fierce, dark intensity.

"You belong at my side, songbird," he murmured near your ear, loud enough only for you to hear, while his arm remained wrapped like an iron band around your waist, keeping you firmly trapped against his heart for the remainder of the tea. "No one insults what is mine and escapes my notice."

The Midnight Visit

The heavy, suffocating atmosphere of the afternoon court finally faded into the quiet serenity of the night. You lay in your bedroom, watching the moonlight filter through the tall windows, casting long, silver shadows across your bedsheets. Your hands were still wrapped in Jestyn's bandages, the faint, comforting scent of his cedarwood and rain cologne still lingering on the linen.

A soft, rhythmic click broke the silence of the room.

You sat up instantly, pulling the covers closer to your chest as the hidden door to your chambers swung open. Jestyn stepped out of the shadows. He had discarded his heavy royal capes and armor, wearing only a loose black silk shirt, his dark hair slightly messy. Free from his crown and the weight of the throne, he looked less like a ruthless monarch and more like a phantom king navigating the dark.

"Jestyn? What are you doing here so late? If the guards—" you whispered, your heart fluttering at his sudden presence.

"The guards answer to me, songbird," he interrupted gently, crossing the room with silent, predatory grace.

The mattress dipped under his weight as he sat on the edge of your bed. Reaching out, his bare hand gently cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone with an aching tenderness.

"I could not sleep until I checked on your hands myself," he murmured.

He lifted your bandaged hands, carefully inspecting the linen in the moonlight to ensure no fresh blood had seeped through. Satisfied that the wounds had closed, a small, rare smile touched his lips. He brought both of your palms together, pressing a soft, lingering kiss against the wrapped cloth.

"Jestyn, how are you doing?" you asked softly, your eyes searching his face. "I couldn't sleep either because of what happened today... I was worried. You became so defensive the moment Cordelia approached."

"Songbird, I apologize if I scared you," Jestyn replied, his voice dropping to a low, quiet register meant only for you.

"But you know how I am to those who have betrayed me and my family. I will not allow anyone near me, nor will I extend my trust to anyone further than my innermost court—Knighter, Wizzy, and, of course, you."

You leaned into his touch, placing your hand against his left cheek, feeling the flawless, porcelain warmth of his skin.

"You do not have to worry about Cordelia," he continued, but his gaze suddenly grew distant, his eyes darkening as old ghosts crept into the room. "She and her family gained nothing but infamy for how they fled when my father’s loyal followers and I needed them most..."

His voice trailed off. You could feel the underlying tension radiating through his posture. He was back there again—fifteen years old, trapped in a cold hideout, drowning in the anger and frustration of abandonment while fighting against Crownus.

"Jestyn... I'm here," you whispered softly, anchoring him back to the present.

"There is no need to dwell on what to worry about. Forget the past. She won't do anything to us... besides causing more shame to herself." You scooted closer across the mattress, closing the distance between you until you could wrap your arms around him.

As you embraced him, holding him tight against your chest, you felt the heavy, rigid tension slowly leave his shoulders. His frantic, distant heartbeat gradually slowed down, calmed by the soothing rhythm of your breathing and the safety of your arms.

He closed his eyes, inhaling deeply, entirely losing himself in the comforting, familiar scent of his beloved songbird. The shadows of his past seemed to melt away, replaced by a sudden warmth as he remembered the plan he had set in motion for you.

Pulling back just a fraction, he looked down at you, a fond, playful glint returning to his eyes.

"Sleep well, my songbird," he said softly, reaching out to playfully pinch your cheek. "You were incredibly brave today, as you always are when facing those envying nobles. Because of that, tomorrow morning I have a surprise waiting for you at the glass dome."

"A surprise?" you asked, your eyes widening with instant curiosity.

Jestyn leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead, his breath warm and comforting against your skin.

"If I told you, it would not be a surprise," he murmured against your skin, a secret smile playing on his lips.

"Sleep now, my songbird. Tomorrow, the court will not matter," he murmured, a genuine smile gracing his lips as he gazed down at your face.

You offered him a soft smile of your own, leaning in as if you were going to kiss his lips. At the very last second, you leaned to the side and playfully pressed a kiss against his cheek instead, trying to catch the stoic king off guard.

"Goodnight, Jestyn. Sleep well too," you murmured mischievously, already shifting to pull the covers up and get comfortable to lay down.

But before you could settle into the pillows, Jestyn caught you completely by surprise.

He didn't let you escape that easily. Sweeping back in, his hand gently but firmly cupped the back of your neck, tilting your head up to meet his. He captured your lips in a deep, breathless kiss—one that stole the air right from your lungs and left your mind completely blank. It was intense, lingering, and filled with a quiet, fierce affection.

When he finally broke the kiss, his warm breath fanned across your lips, a low, contented hum vibrating in his chest.

"Sleep well, my songbird. My dearest, beautiful [Y/N]," he whispered against your skin.

He slowly pulled away and stepped back into the shadows, slipping through the hidden door as silently as he had arrived. You sank back into your pillows with a soft, calming sigh, your lips still tingling from his touch, your heart racing with sweet anticipation for whatever surprise awaited you in the morning.

The Crystal Garden Dome

The morning sun hit the castle with a brilliant, blinding light, turning the massive glass panes of the crystal garden dome into a diamond-like spectacle. Exotic flowers bloomed in every corner, filling the warm, humid air with the scent of sweet jasmine and fresh rain. Streams of morning light cut through the mist of the indoor waterfalls, creating miniature rainbows over the stone pathways.

You walked inside quickly, your heart pounding with anticipation as you looked around the lush green foliage. The dome was completely empty of guards, servants, and gossiping nobles. It was entirely silent, save for the chirping of exotic birds.

Then, you saw a figure standing near the center pavilion, admiring a cluster of white roses.

Your breath caught in your throat. The posture, the silvering hair, the familiar, grounding presence—it couldn't be.

"Father...?" the word escaped your lips as a breathless sob.

The man turned around at the sound of your voice. His face lined with worry and exhaustion, but the moment his eyes fell upon you, his expression completely transformed into pure, radiant joy.

"My child! My little Canary!" he gasped, opening his arms wide.

You didn't care about decorum, you didn't care about the royal hallways, and you completely forgot about the slight soreness in your hands.

You sprinted down the marble path, throwing yourself entirely into his arms. He caught you securely, lifting you slightly as he hugged you tightly against his chest, burying his face into your hair just like he used to when you were young and a baby.

"I thought... I thought I wouldn't see you for months," you cried into his shoulder, the tears finally spilling over your lashes, wiping away all the lingering pain and anger from Cordelia's cruel words the day before.

"How are you here?" You said as you cleaned your face from the tears

"The King's personal carriage brought me through the night," your father explained softly, pulling back just enough to wipe the tears from your face with a calloused, gentle thumb. He looked around the breathtaking crystal dome, a deep sense of relief and gratitude in his eyes.

"He sent word that you needed me. He said the palace was not complete without your family here to share it." Your father said smiling and patting your head and the other hand over your upper back

Standing just outside the entrance of the dome, hidden partially behind the shadow of a marble pillar, Jestyn stood silently. His arms were crossed over his chest, his cold, calculating gaze completely gone, replaced by a quiet, protective satisfaction as he watched you laugh and cry in your father's arms. He had given you your joy back—and he would destroy anyone who ever tried to take it away again.

—————————————————————-

STRICTLY DNI MINORS. 🥀🖤

The King’s Tenderness and the Muse’s Blooming Heart

The air beneath the weeping willow trees grew thick, vibrating with the electric red-and-green glow of the flower-lites. You were entirely breathless, your back pressed flat into the silk blanket as Jestyn’s massive frame loomed over yours. His large hands slid up the soft linen of your trousers, parting your thighs with a quiet, unyielding weight that anchored you completely to the earth.

Slowly, with a deliberate, commanding patience, his fingers began to unfasten your summer attire. Your own hands trembled as you reached up to help him, your fingers unbuttoning his heavy velvet coat, but a sudden, sharp spike of anxiety pierced through your haze of desire. The labyrinth was secluded, but the palace walls still held eyes.

“Wait… Je—Your Highness!” you gasped, your voice a frantic whisper as you clutched at his broad shoulders. “What if someone finds us here? The maids, the butlers… what if Knighter comes looking for you—?”

“Shhh~ Songbird…” He silenced you instantly, pressing the flat of his right hand over your mouth.

You shivered violently at the contact. This wasn't the smooth, polished white porcelain of his outer shell; it was the raw, midnight-black expanse of his exposed Inner Skin. It felt impossibly smooth, sending a shock of goosebumps down your spine.

For a human noble, the fact that marionettes possessed organic inner flesh, muscles, and beating hearts beneath their hard armor was always an intoxicating mystery. You could feel the slight, deep thrum of his internal heartbeat heating up beneath his ribs.

“I made certain that no one would disturb our Eden,” Jestyn murmured, his crimson eyes flaring with a dark, terrifying intensity as he stared down at you. His thumb traced your lower lip, a soft, predatory smile gracing his features.

“And if anyone does dare to look… they will never live to see the morning light. You are under my sovereign protection, even from my own court.” The sheer dominance in his vow sent a rush of liquid heat straight to your core.

When he lowered his head to seal his lips over yours, any remaining panic dissolved. You melted into his deep, conquering kiss, your hands pushing the linen shirt off his shoulders.

Your breath caught in your throat as his chest was laid bare. Despite being a puppet king, he was rippled with lean, powerful muscle covering his organic frame. Your mind briefly drifted back to the whispered gossip of the Golden Circle—the scandalous rumors about how marionettes were shaped beneath their clothes, whether they truly possessed the same anatomy for pleasure as soft-skin humans.

Jestyn didn't leave you time to wonder. He began to trace a path of burning, reverent kisses down your throat, trailing over your collarbone and pressing his lips to the warm skin of your torso and belly. Each touch of his cool porcelain mouth against your feverish skin made you arch off the blanket, whimpering his name.

But then, he paused. The heavy hum in his chest deepened, a sign that his possessive mind had thought of a better, more absolute way to claim you. He reached onto the silver tray and picked up a long, dark silk ribbon lace. A slow, dominant smirk curved his lips.

“The most exquisite feeling is not just love, my sweet Songbird,” he whispered, his voice dropping into a hoarse, melodic chime that made your heart skip a beat.

“It is learning to surrender control... and feeling everything I choose to give you.” Your breath hitched as you recognized the blindfold.

You didn't pull away; the intense, trusting bond you had forged at the riverbank held you captive. You lay there, shivering in nothing but your underwear while he remained shirtless, willingly letting him wrap the silk over your eyes.

As the darkness claimed your vision, your other senses heightened to an agonizing degree. You couldn't see him, but you could hear the low, possessive rhythm of his breathing, the soft rustle of the willow leaves, and the heavy, unyielding warmth of the Sovereign settling between your thighs—ready to make you break for him completely.

The darkness behind the silk blindfold was absolute, making every other sensation magnify until you were acutely aware of the cool breeze on your bare skin and the heavy, ticking rumble of his chest. You lay there, a mix of frantic confusion and eager anticipation swirling in your chest, until a sudden gasp broke from your lips.

Something incredibly soft—a plush, downy feather—brushed against your cheek.

You trembled violently as Jestyn deliberately dragged the feather down your throat, trailing it over your collarbone and slowly sweeping it down your belly. A helpless whimper escaped you.

You had always been incredibly sensitive to touch. Your mind flashed back to your life before the palace—how you had always sought out soft textures, surrounding your bed with heavy silks, satin ribbons, and delicate feathers just to feel comforted.

“Can you feel it, Songbird~?” Jestyn murmured, his voice a low, vibrating chime that felt dangerously close to your ear.

“Do not hold your breath. You know how much I adore your melodies when you are surprised… or when you are enjoying yourself.” He cradled your jaw with the cool, flawless porcelain of his left hand, tilting your head up while his right hand continued to torment your skin with the feather.

“Y-You knew~…” you breathed out, your voice breaking as the soft down teased your sensitive skin. “You knew I loved soft textures…”

“I know everything about you, my sweet Muse,” he whispered against your skin.

Your words dissolved into a loud, breathless gasp when the texture suddenly shifted. He dragged the feather lower, tracing the sensitive, burning skin of your inner thighs, brushing dangerously close to the edge of your underwear.

You arched completely off the silk blanket, your fingers clawing desperately into the fabric beneath you as he teased you back and forth—a magnificent, sweet torture that had your core aching with a heavy, pooling heat.

The Sovereign’s Realm

Just as you thought you couldn't endure another second of the teasing, the feather was cast aside. You froze, a sudden shockwave of heat rendering you entirely still as something massive, solid, and undeniably commanding pressed firmly between your legs.

“Y-Your Highness?… is that?…” Your face burned a brilliant, crimson hue as the stark reality of his anatomy hit you.

There was no mistaking the prominent, rigid bulge pressing hard against your center, completely pinning your thighs wide open. Beneath his clothes, the King’s internal temperature had soared, his organic inner skin and muscle throbbing with a raw, masculine hunger.

Jestyn let out a low, ragged groan, his breathing heavy and uneven as he looked down at your flushed, blindfolded face. Seeing you entirely at his mercy, melting under his absolute care, was pushing his internal systems to their absolute limits.

Overwhelmed by the sudden intensity, your instinct snapped. Your hands flew up, your fingers desperately reaching for the silk lace over your eyes, wanting nothing more than to see his face.

But you never got the chance. Before your fingertips could even touch the knot, Jestyn’s massive porcelain hand clamped down around both of your wrists with an iron, effortless grip, pinning your hands securely back down against the blanket.

“I did not give you permission to remove that, Songbird,” he growled, a dark, triumphant smirk curving his lips as he loomed over you.

“You will not see me... not until I tell you to. Every inch of your pleasure tonight belongs to my command. Now, lie still for your King, and let me hear you sing.” he says with his heavy chest pressing flush against yours.

Wrapped in darkness, trapped beneath his heavy, powerful frame, you could only nod helplessly, completely surrendering your body to the exquisite cage he had built around you.

You froze, your heart hammering against your ribs as the sharp, metallic click of his belt buckle echoed through the quiet clearing. You didn't dare move; you knew with absolute certainty that if you tried to twist away or break his grip, he would find a way to punish your disobedience.

A loud, breathless gasp shattered the night air as Jestyn shifted his immense weight. He didn't plunge into you; instead, he deliberately pressed his exposed groin flat against the thin fabric of your underwear, anchoring himself firmly between your parted thighs.

You trembled violently from the sheer shock of the contact. His raw inner skin felt incredibly smooth and cool against your feverish warmth, yet it carried a slick, damp heat of its own—an undeniable sign of how intensely his organic systems were reacting to your proximity. He leaned his full weight into you, letting you feel the rigid, unyielding power of his claim as you whimpered beneath his shadow, completely trapped under his command.

Under the Starlight Canopy

When the storm of frantic breaths and overwhelming heat finally slowed, the heavy, dominant urgency of the King melted back into a quiet, protective reverence.

The blindfold was long gone, and the deep twilight had given way to a crisp, midnight sky. The electric glow of the flower-lites cast a soft, ambient halo around the clearing, but the real view was up above, where thousands of silver stars cut through the velvet darkness.

Jestyn had wrapped you securely within a thick, plush velvet blanket, pulling your back flush against his broad chest. You sat nestled perfectly between his powerful thighs, his long arms wound tightly around your waist to shield you from the cool night breeze. The heavy, rhythmic hum of his internal heart had slowed to a soothing, steady pulse beneath your shoulder blades.

He pulls you closer, closing what little distance is left between you until there’s no space at all.

You soften completely against him, snuggling right into his embrace. With your chest pressed firmly against his, you can feel the steady, comforting rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your cheek, matching the slow quiet of the night. It’s warm, solid, and completely safe.

Wrapped up tight in his arms, you both look up at the sky. Above you, a brilliant blanket of stars stretches out across the darkness, blinking softly. The world around you completely fades away, leaving just the quiet rustle of the night air, the warmth of his skin, and the two of you watching the universe put on a show.

"The world is quiet now, my sweet Songbird," Jestyn whispered into the night, his voice a low, devoted chime. "And you are exactly where you belong."

“I know,” you murmur, leaning into the warmth of his space. “But I also enjoy the quietness… with you. This amazing picnic, this perfect night…” Your hand rises, your fingers tenderly tracing the sharp contour of his right cheek, where the inner skin parts expose his carved teeth. Your thumb rests gently against his lower lip.

“You really make me feel things I never thought I’d ever experience,” you whisper, a flush rising to your cheeks as you press closer against his chest.

Jestyn tilts his head slightly into your touch, a curious gleam in his eyes. “What sort of things do I make you feel, my Songbird?”

“So many things,” you say softly, the words spilling out like poetry as you wrap your arms tighter around him. “Love… being cherished… tenderness. But also pleasure… even with that damn blindfold.”

A soft, breathy chuckle escapes him, the sound vibrating against your chest.

“In other words…” you whisper, your eyelids growing heavy with sleep, “you love me deeply. Just as I love you.”

Before darkness takes you, you feel Jestyn press a soft, lingering kiss against your forehead, his porcelain frame holding you as if you were the most fragile thing in his kingdom.

“Sleep tightly, my sweet Songbird,” he murmurs into the crown of your head, pulling you securely into the safe crook of his neck and collarbone. “I love you endlessly.”

The Aftermath and Tea

In the weeks following that midnight picnic, the bond between you and the King only deepened. A playful rhythm settled between you; you began leaving cryptic little notes in his study and sending his messenger doves back to him carrying clever riddles. But royal favor always breeds envy.

One crisp afternoon, you found yourself invited to a high-society tea with the nobles of the Golden Circle. As you walked down the grand palace corridor toward the manicured gardens, Wizzy fell into step beside you, while Mary followed closely behind, carrying a spare shawl.

“I must say, it is an absolute delight to accompany you today, [Y/N]. A walk through the gardens beats dusty old archives any day.” Wizzy adjusted his cuffs, his bright eyes scanning the open courtyard ahead.

“Indeed, My Lord/My Lady,” Mary chimed in softly, offering a warm, reassuring smile.

“We are honored to be by your side. But… if I may speak freely?” You nodded, sensing the sudden shift in her tone. Mary’s smile faded into genuine concern as she leaned in closer.

“The Golden Circle can be a nest of vipers,” Mary warned in a low whisper.

“They smile with pearly teeth, but their words carry hidden blades. Be very careful who you trust with your thoughts today. They will be looking for any excuse to trip you up.” Wizzy nodded solemnly in agreement, his usual playful demeanor giving way to a fiercely protective look.

“Mary is right. The court is entirely unaccustomed to the King showing this level of genuine affection to anyone. They are confused, and confusion breeds malice. Keep your chin high, match their wit, but keep your guard up. Remember, you have earned your place here, but they will try to make you feel like you haven't. Just stay close to us.” You offered them a soft, genuine smile, a wave of deep gratitude washing over you.

“Thank you, both of you,” you whispered back, truly grateful for their protective instincts.

Truth be told, you were no stranger to envy. You had already experienced the sting of bitter whispers and malicious gossip in the past; you knew exactly how cruel people could get when they coveted what someone else had. But today, you didn't want to dwell on that bitterness. You genuinely just wanted to have a lovely afternoon, mingle peacefully, and spend pleasant, lighthearted time with everyone in the garden.

Taking their advice to heart, you took a breath, smoothed down your clothes, and finally stepped out onto the sunlit lawn.

As you moved through the garden, the court naturally split into two very different sides. On one hand, a group of younger nobles crowded around you, completely amazed by your sudden rise.

“It’s truly fascinating,” a young Baroness chimed, her eyes wide with admiration as she fanned herself.

“To captivate His Majesty so entirely, and without a single drop of royal blood? Your voice must truly possess a divine magic, Lord/Lady [Y/N].” a young lord around 20 smiled towards you with reverence.

“A rare talent indeed,” an elderly Count agreed, nodding respectfully.

But just a few feet away, the atmosphere curdled. A cluster of high-ranking lords and ladies hid behind their laced porcelain cups, their eyes sharp with confusion and bitter jealousy. Their harsh whispers were barely masked by the clinking of silverware.

“A commoner sitting at the right hand of the throne? It’s absurd,” a Duchess hissed to her peers, her gaze boring into you.

“His Majesty must be losing his senses. To throw away centuries of tradition for a mere entertainer.”

“It’s humiliating for the rest of us,” a Marquis muttered back, swirling his tea aggressively.

“We spend decades currying favor, yet this... nobody sweeps in and steals his attention overnight? There must be some foul trickery at play.”

You were entirely aware of the haters and their bitter glares, but rather than letting the venom shrink you, you tilted your head, letting a serene, poised smile grace your lips.

“It is a beautiful afternoon for reflection, isn't it?” you said smoothly, your voice clear enough to carry over the table.

“I understand that His Majesty's appreciation for genuine artistry can be... disorienting for those who only understand the court through the lens of transaction and obligation. But I assure you, there is no trickery. Only a mutual respect that requires no titles to be understood.” You turned slightly toward the murmuring faction, raising your teacup with effortless grace.

The bickering nobles froze, their faces flushing as your words subtly exposed their transactional nature. Wizzy hid a proud smirk behind his hand, and Mary offered a tiny, approving nod. You had handled the vipers beautifully.

Even the other nobles who admired your presence and even asked your talent, laughed along as they were agreed with your point of view.

“Ah, so you are the elusive Lord/Lady [Y/N], The King’s delightful little songbird… or is ’glorified pet’ the more accurate title for the court registry?”

Suddenly, the ambient chatter of the garden died down completely, dropping into a terrifying, icy chill, the receptive nobles grew pale, and the jealous ones instantly lowered their heads in deep, frantic bows. The entire Golden Circle went utterly cold as the crowd parted, recognizing Archduchess Cordelia stepping onto the grass.

Her presence was breathtakingly opulent, a striking display of absolute power and doll-like perfection. She wore a magnificent, sweeping ballgown of a delicate, dusty rose pink, featuring an off-the-shoulder sweetheart neckline adorned with intricate gold filigree.

The structured, corseted bodice was meticulously stitched with fine gold embroidery, tightly tapering at her waist before cascading down into flowing layers of sheer, airy pink silk over a heavy, cream-colored lace underskirt. Elaborate gold chains slung across her hips, swaying gracefully with every step, and long, flowing bell sleeves draped elegantly past her hands.

Framing her flawless, unblemished white porcelain face was a breathtaking mass of hair—spun from literal strands of fine gold, styled into long into a side braid without a single strand out of place.

Striding perfectly in tandem beside her was a lavish mechanical cat, its metallic brass joints clicking in a rhythmic hum that matched her steps. The creature’s ruby-crusted eyes gleamed with a cold light as it tilted its head toward you. On her other side stood her personal maid, a rigid, stone-faced wooden puppet dressed in a stark, pristine black-and-white uniform, holding her mistress's matching pink velvet parasol with unwavering, clockwork precision.

The contrast between the two of you was stark. Where you possessed a soft, fluid, and warm human grace, Cordelia was a monument of cold, artificial perfection wrapped in a vibrant, porcelain-doll fantasy. Her movements were a terrifyingly calculated, rhythmic click-clack of heavy silks, glittering jewels, and clockwork precision. She didn't have a single scratch or chip on her frame; she looked like a priceless, living masterpiece who had been manufactured solely to rule.

With a subtle, metallic snap of her porcelain joints, Cordelia opened her delicate gold-and-lace fan, masking a chilling, artificial smile.

The Picnic Date

Even though you understood exactly what the King’s letter implied, a nervous flutter remained trapped in your chest as you stared at your vanity. This particular summer had brought unusually harsh, stifling days—a heavy heat wave that left both soft-skin humans and the porcelain marionettes of the court entirely exhausted.

Whenever you walked the upper terraces, you would see the ladies of the Golden Circle constantly fluttering their lace fans or refreshing their heavy perfumes just to keep their silks from feeling suffocated. As a human noble, you weren't immune to the weather either.

But your mind wasn't just occupied by the heat.

Your eyes drifted to the desk where a small, exquisitely crafted mechanical dove sat perched. It was a gift from Jestyn—a direct line of communication to the outside world. During your first terrifying days in the glass dome, your parents had flooded you with anxious letters. Since the turning point at the riverbank, you had been using the dove to send regular replies home, trying to soothe their fears without provoking a political incident.

The last letter from your father, however, carried a desperate weight. He was quietly pulling every political lever he could to bring you back to the [Y/S] estate, entirely unaware that the "cage" you were kept in had begun to feel like a sanctuary. You had promised yourself you would speak to Jestyn about your family's safety today, balancing the duty of your noble name with the intoxicating new routine you had fallen into within the palace.

Pushing the politics aside for the afternoon, you turned to your wardrobe. You smiled with relief when your fingers brushed against fabrics that didn't carry the suffocating weight of court velvet and heavy gemstones.

———————————————————————————

You slipped into an outfit perfectly tailored for a warm afternoon in the gardens:

• For Female Readers: You chose a flowing, cottagecore-inspired gown in an off-white cotton blend. The romantic, wide peasant neckline was gently gathered across the bust, featuring a delicate tie detail at the center.

The long, billowy bishop sleeves kept the sun off your skin while remaining completely breathable, and the multi-tiered, pleated maxi skirt cascaded down to a ruffled hem adorned with a band of soft, vintage blue floral lace.

• For Male Readers: You opted for a classic, relaxed-vintage silhouette. You donned a crisp, lightweight white button-up shirt with pinstripe textures, rolling the sleeves casually up to your forearms and leaving the collar comfortably unbuttoned.

This was tucked neatly into a pair of tailored navy-blue trousers with subtle vertical pinstripes, held up by thick, rustic brown suspenders with polished silver clips that added a touch of grounded, old-world charm.

• For Gender-Neutral Readers: You selected an ensemble that perfectly balanced comfort with historical elegance. The look featured a loose-fitting, ivory linen tunic with a wide, soft collar and voluminous sleeves that gathered gently at the wrists.

This was paired with loose, wide-leg culottes in a rich tobacco-brown linen that fell to the mid-calf, all neatly cinched at the waist with a thick, matching brown fabric belt and a prominent square buckle.

——————————————————————————-

Once dressed, you called for Lucille and Mary. The two maids were delighted by the change of pace, eagerly helping you apply a light, refreshing floral perfume and styling your hair up and away from your neck to keep you cool.

When you finally stepped into the grand gardens alone, you realized Jestyn hadn't simply expected you to walk to the willow trees. At the entrance of the massive hedge labyrinth, the cool stone path was dusted with a deliberate trail of blood-red rose petals.

Curious, you stepped inside. Resting on the first brass hedge structure was a tiny, folded piece of parchment written in his sharp, elegant script:

“To find the center of my world, you must follow where the shadows don't dare to go. Turn left where the real nightingales sing, and ignore the iron ones, Songbird.”

A genuine smile broke across your face. As you moved deeper into the maze, the riddle proved true; the mechanical birds chirped on the right, but the soft, organic trills of wild birds echoed from the left. At the next turn, another small note awaited you on a sundial:

“Time stands still whenever you are near. Walk past the frozen hours, and follow the scent of crushed mint.”

You couldn't help but pick up your pace, your shoes catching on the grass as a sudden, breathless excitement took over. The thrill of the chase—of knowing a sovereign who commanded an entire empire was hiding in the greenery just to play a game with you—made your pulse race with that dangerous, heavy heat.

You rounded the final thick wall of green leaves, breathless and flushed, and there he was.

King Jestyn stood beneath the sweeping, weeping branches of the great willow trees, his massive large frame cutting a striking figure against the soft, dappled sunlight.

A luxurious linen blanket had been laid out over the grass, laden with crystal platters of fresh fruits, light delicacies, and cooled wines. He turned to face you, the crimson glow in his eyes softening into a warm, utterly mesmerized light as he took in the sight of you unburdened by the court, completely beautiful in the summer air.

Whispers Under the Willow

You walked toward the King with a graceful, lighthearted step, feeling a wave of genuine happiness wash over you. It felt like reuniting with a long-lost friend who had been waiting a lifetime just to see you smile.

“Heh… you are truly amazing with your setups and riddles, Your Highness,” you murmured with a soft chuckle, stepping onto the edge of the linen blanket.

Jestyn could only stare. To him, you looked like a deity descending to earth to discover the quiet wonders of nature. Beneath the sweeping willow branches, surrounded by the feast he had curated, you were the only masterpiece that mattered.

“Indeed, Songbird~” he murmured, his voice a low, melodious chime. “You are always so clever, so eager for a puzzle. How could I resist setting one up just for you?”

Before you could sit on the grass, his fingers curled around yours. With a playful, effortless tug, he pulled you down. A soft gasp escaped your lips at the sudden movement, but the fear never came; instead, you felt his massive, cool frame catch you flawlessly, settling you right onto his lap. It was the mannerism he had grown addicted to—his favorite way to anchor you to his side, even without the prying eyes of the Great Hall.

“Weren’t you supposed to be busy today, Your Highness?” you asked, tilting your head to look up into his striking face. “I thought you had endless political arrangements to oversee for the kingdom.”

“The kingdom can wait,” Jestyn whispered, his thumb lightly brushing the fabric of your new attire at your waist. “I wanted to... no, I needed to be here. With you.”

A wave of wonder washed over you. It was breathtaking to realize that even though he was a fiercely responsible sovereign—a warrior king who had literally fought through blood and fire to reclaim his crown—he would cast it all aside just to give you his time, his tenderness, and his undivided attention.

“What is the occasion today, Your Highness?” you asked softly, placing your hand flat against his chest. It still surprised you how vividly you could feel his heartbeat pulsing against your palm.

Humans often mistakenly believed that marionettes were entirely hollow or made solely of cold brass gears, forgetting the complex, organic inner skin and organs that throbbed beneath their shells.

“There is no special occasion, my dear. I simply wanted to hear your melody, your voice... and to know what you did today,” he murmured. He reached up, his right hand cupping your cheek.

The smooth, dark expanse of his exposed Inner Skin from his right arm sent a sudden rush of goosebumps down your neck. It was a lingering reminder of the porcelain armor he had lost in the war, a patch of pure vulnerability that felt intensely smooth and cool against your soft skin.

“I want to sing for you, Your Highness, and tell you everything... but...” You lowered your gaze, a sudden shadow of sadness dampening your voice as you thought of your family. "My father sent another letter... he wants me to come home."

You sighed, bracing yourself. You had been here since the last biting days of winter, watching the seasons bleed from spring into the heavy heat of summer. You knew how intense and unyielding Jestyn could get whenever the outside world tried to pull you away from him. Predictably, his grip tightened around your waist, his large fingers anchoring you against his lap.

"And do you? Do you wish to leave my cage, Songbird?" But instead of the terrifying rage you expected, his crimson eyes flickered with a raw, unexpected vulnerability.

“I wouldn’t call it a cage, Your Highness…” you confessed, your voice trembling slightly under the weight of the political pressures surrounding you both.

“I think... I think I have started to feel at home here. But my home also belongs to my family. I just do not know how to ease my father's mind, or how to make him understand that I am safe with you.” You said as you stare at the summer breeze of the garden, where no knights or maid were peeking your picnic date.

Jestyn stared at you, his somber expression slowly melting into a serene, captivated mask. The fact that his beautiful captive was calling his palace home was an intoxicating victory.

“Then we will handle it together,” he murmured, his voice a soothing chime. “I know your family is worried. They believe you are being mistreated. But you know I would never harm you... I only wish to give you wonders to see, and perhaps... some pleasures to explore.”

When he mentioned the word pleasure, your face burned hot. You quickly shook your head, wondering if you had completely misheard the dark, suggestive tone in his voice.

“I-I understand,” you stammered, trying to steer your thoughts away from the sudden heat in your chest. “It is just odd for me. Even at the Midsummer Gala, where everyone witnessed our bond, the nobles still held so many cruel opinions. They whisper about whether I was kidnapped, or if I willingly accepted you... I am learning the hard way how much scrutiny I must endure.” You said feeling uncomfortable with the mistaken ideas.

Sweet Melodies and Feelings

“Everyone in the court knows you are under my protection, Songbird. No one will dare to humiliate you,” Jestyn said, his finger tilting your chin upward until your faces were inches apart. A dark, protective fire flickered in his eyes, but it vanished the moment he picked up a plump, ripe strawberry from the silver platter. “Open up for me, Songbird~ Perhaps a bit of sweetness can wash away your worries.”

“J-je-! I mean... my King!” you protested, your noble composure completely fracturing as you blushed furiously.

“I mean it, Songbird. I will handle the critics. If anyone dares to mistreat or humiliate you... oh, they have absolutely no conception of the consequences.” He let out a low, rumbling chuckle that vibrated right through your spine.

Before you could argue further, he gently hushed you, pressing the cool red vibrant strawberry against your lips. You bit into the strawberry tenderly, a soft hum escaping your throat as the sweet, tart juice flooded your senses.

Closing your eyes, you felt the storm of your anxieties suddenly quiet down, completely subdued by his gentle command.

As you swallowed, the porcelain pad of his thumb lingered on your lower lip, wiping away a stray drop of juice. You opened your eyes to meet his intense gaze. Your heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs, your body heat spiking despite his cool porcelain frame.

“For now, let us simply enjoy our Eden,” Jestyn whispered, leaning down to press a lingering, breathless kiss to the corner of your lips. Your breath hitched at the sheer intimacy of the touch. “Sing for me.”

You smiled, finally surrendering to the magic of the afternoon. For the next few hours, you sang melodies, you shared your thoughts, discussing the latest art and literature sweeping through the kingdom. You feasted on cherries, chocolates, delicate pastries, and rich wine, balancing the sweetness with sharp cheeses and savory hams. At one point, he pulled you to your feet, and you danced a slow, sweeping waltz together beneath the willow branches, your voice lifting in a sweet melody that seemed to hold the entire world at bay.

You had never believed in fairytales—the ones where a maiden is easily courted by a perfect prince. But trapped in the heavy, golden warmth of the afternoon, adoring and adored by a king who treated you like his ultimate muse, you realized you were living one.

The King’s Tenderness and the Muse’s Blooming Heart [18+/Spicy/DNI Minors]

As the sun began to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in deep shades of violet and bruised gold, the dusk brought a cool breeze. Jestyn stood up to light the clearing, setting up a ring of uniquely crafted lamps around the picnic blanket.

You watched him with wide, wonder-filled eyes. These weren't ordinary lanterns; they were vintage glass lightbulbs shaped like elegant flames. Inside each crystal-clear bulb, completely free of any traditional glowing filaments, stood a miniature, hand-sculpted metal flower with delicate leaves and stems.

When Jestyn channeled power into them, the vacuum-sealed neon and argon gases ignited. Instantly, the phosphor-coated metal inside began to glow with vibrant, electric colors—the petals burning in a brilliant, fiery orange-red, while the hand-sculpted leaves radiated a lush, luminous green. The soft, colorful neon light cast a dreamy, otherworldly glow over the entire picnic setup.

“These are beautiful~” you breathed, leaning closer to one of the glowing bulbs, completely captivated by the sight. “How is it possible to trap a flower inside a lightbulb without burning it?”

“It is a specialized vacuum clockwork technique,” Jestyn’s voice echoed directly behind you. His massive, heavy frame loomed over yours, blocking out the last remnants of the garden.

He didn't just sit next to you; he sank down onto the blanket and pulled you backward against his chest, your hips settling perfectly between his powerful thighs as his long arms wrapped around your waist.

The light summer attire you chose offered no protection against the sudden, overwhelming sensation of his touch. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his cool porcelain breath ghosting over your collarbone.

"I wanted to preserve their beauty before the frost could ruin them," he whispered, his voice a dangerously low, vibrating chime. He shifted, pressing the smooth, dark expanse of his exposed Inner Skin firmly against your bare shoulder. "Just as I intend to preserve you…. Forever"

A heavy, aching tension settled deep in the pit of your stomach. You turned your head slightly, your gaze locking onto his brilliant crimson eyes. The intense proximity was driving you mad; your soft-skin body was practically crying out to break past the strict, gentlemanly restraint he had maintained for months.

“My King…” you breathed, your lips just inches from his.

He didn't make you wait. Slowly, deliberately, Jestyn leaned down and closed the distance, sealing his mouth over yours in their first true kiss.

It began with a profound, aching tenderness—a soft, reverent press of his lips that tasted of sweet wine and summer air. He kissed you as if you were something holy, tracing the shape of your mouth with a deep, lingering passion that made your entire body melt against him. But as you let out a soft, breathless hum into the kiss, your hands wrapping around his neck, the gentleness shifted. The taste of your surrender awakened the sovereign within him.

The tenderness vanished, replaced by an absolute, unyielding dominance. In one swift, effortless motion, Jestyn broke the kiss only to hold your wrists beside your head against the silk blanket, rolling over to loom over you like a powerful, terrifying shadow. You gasped for air, your back arching against the pillows that he had settled down on the picnic, as the sheer weight of his 215cm frame anchored you down.

"You are breathing so heavily, my sweet Songbird," he growled, his crimson eyes flaring with a blinding, possessive fire that held you completely trapped. His free hand slowly slid up your collarbone, the cool porcelain of his fingers sending a violent wave of goosebumps through the light silk of your summer attire.

"Your heart is racing... it is practically begging me to ruin this perfect noble composure of yours. Tell me what you want." He says as he smiled looking down to you, with the light reflecting his right cracked face that showed his teeth.

"My King..." you whimpered, completely caught in his grip, the sudden heat in your core making you dizzy. "Please..."

A dark, triumphant chuckle rumbled deep in his chest. Your submission was the only permission he required. He leaned down, his lips bruising the sensitive skin right beneath your ear, biting down just gently to draw a sharp gasp from your throat before his tongue swiped over the ache, driving you to the brink of delirium.

"You want me to take you," Jestyn commanded, his voice a heavy, undeniable vow as his other fingers moved higher, finding the sensitive heat between your thighs and demanding a soft, broken cry from your lips.

"You want to see what happens when the gentleman steps aside. Surrender to the cage, Songbird. Let me hear you break for me, and only me, until the entire world outside this garden burns to ash." He whispers to your face as he looks at you with true love and devotion only for your eyes.

As his mouth locked onto yours once more in a deep, conquering kiss that utterly stole the breath from your lungs, his large hands split your thighs wide, claiming your heat with a relentless, heavy dominance that left you entirely caught in his grip—ready for whatever exquisite torture your King had in store for you.

The King’s Secret

You stared at him, breathless, waiting for the words that would bridge seventeen years of silence. He looked awestruck, his crimson eyes flickering as if he were seeing the ghost of that eight-year-old child standing before him again. Finally, he let out a long, heavy sigh and nodded with a slow, mechanical elegance.

“Yes... yes, Songbird. It was me,” he whispered. “The boy at the park... the one who knelt in the dirt to clean your bruised knee. It was always me.” He tightened his grip on your hand, grounding himself.

You knew the weight of the history he carried. The rumors of the Great War were whispered in every corner of the Golden Circle—the final, bloody stand led by his parents. You remembered the old portraits of King Valerius, a man of iron and scars who stood like a mountain, and Queen Celestia, whose hair was like spun moonlight and whose smile was said to be the only thing that could soften the King's heart. They were warriors, brave and formidable, leading the charge against the monsters until the very end.

When they fell, the kingdom fell into shadow. Jestyn was only fifteen—a Prince in mourning, suddenly hunted by his own blood. His uncle, Crownus, the usurper, had stolen the throne and sought to banish the young heir into the abyss.

But Jestyn was his father’s son. For ten years, he lived in the shadows, protected by his parents' most loyal allies—generals and lords who refused to bow to a tyrant. When Jestyn finally returned at twenty-five, he didn't come for a trial; he came for a reckoning.

The stories of that night still chilled the blood of the Golden Circle. They said Crownus was found slumped over his final feast, poisoned alongside his court of concubine marionettes. Before the usurper’s body was even cold, Jestyn had set the castle ablaze—the second ancestral home of his family, purged by fire to wash away the stain of his uncle’s betrayal. That was the night Jestyn reclaimed the crown that was rightfully his.

“You were... mourning?” you asked softly.

Despite the weeks of fear, a part of you wanted to learn what lived behind the King’s iron armor.

“I was lost,” Jestyn confessed, his gaze drifting to the silver leaves.

“The battle for the crown and the alliances I forged made me who I am today. But I remember how you came across my path that day in the park. I remember doubting if this was the life I wanted... if my parents would be proud of the mechanical thing I was becoming.” He sighed, his thumb caressing your cheek.

His touch was cold, yet the gesture was so tender it made your skin ache. “I remember how you ran that day, chasing the birds. I could almost see you trying to fly by jumping, whistling that little melody. You looked like a piece of the light my mother, Celestia, used to talk about.”

With a grace that felt like a secret, he showed the the wooden whistle you had lost at twelve. You gasped, seeing the golden filigree shimmer in the light of the lotus flowers. It wasn't a dream; it was the physical proof of his long-term devotion.

“You grounded me,” he confessed. “Seeing your bright eyes... when you fell, I felt a flicker of sympathy I thought I had lost to war and murder.” His expression darkened for a moment.

A flash of the "monster" they whispered about, before he smoothed his features back into a saint-like serenity. “Your innocence made me believe I wasn't alone... that there was kindness in this world.”

“And you have followed me ever since,” you breathed, your heart hammering against your ribs. “You took everything... even Aethelgard. My mentor, the painter... you removed him the moment the portrait was finished.”

“Exactly, Songbird,” he murmured, leaning closer until you could feel the hum of his mechanical heart.

“Then why did you buy it?” you asked, your voice barely a whisper as you watched a pair of swans glide together on the dark water. “You owned that painting because you knew exactly who I was back then.”

You looked at him, and for the first time, the fear was overshadowed by something much more dangerous. It was a longing that terrified you—a realization that you were the only piece of humanity left in a King made of gears and grief.

The Sovereign’s Vow

Silence fell over the riverbank, thick and heavy with the scent of crushed roses and bioluminescent water. You waited for him to justify the years of stalking, to explain away the shadows. Instead, Jestyn lowered his head, his forehead almost touching yours.

"I kept the whistle because it was the only piece of sunlight I could carry into the dark," he confessed, his voice barely a melodic hum.

"I kept the portrait because I needed to remind myself that the 'Songbird' I met by the fountain was real—not just a hallucination of a boy lost in war." He said as he took a piece of hair behind your ear.

"I became this... this mechanical thing, Y/N, so that I could build a kingdom where you would never have to see the poison or the fire. I kept the secrets because I wanted you to stay 'bright.' I didn't want the soot of my crown to stain your wings." He let out a shaky breath that felt like the cooling of hot metal.

As he spoke, a sudden, violent rush of heat flooded your chest—a sensation so foreign and intense it left you dizzy. You had spent years being courted by the elite of the Golden Circle; lords and ladies alike had offered you poetry, gems, and polished smiles in an attempt to conquer your heart. But their efforts had always felt like a performance—shallow and cold.

With Jestyn, there were no performances. There was only this terrifying, absolute intimacy.

Slowly, as if asking for permission without words, Jestyn leaned in. He didn't reach for your lips; that would have felt like a conquest, and in this moment, he was a worshiper. Instead, he pressed a lingering, reverent kiss to your forehead.

His skin was porcelain-smooth and cool, yet the spot where he touched you felt like it was being branded with liquid fire. You felt your eyes flutter shut, breath hitching with relief, your pulse racing in a way no suitor had ever managed to provoke.

Despite the cage he had built around you, despite the secrets he had kept, you felt a treacherous surge of love—a deep, visceral connection to the marionettes man who had been your silent guardian for seventeen years.

He lingered there, breathing in the scent of your hair as if it were the only air left in the kingdom. It was a gesture of profound, terrifying devotion—a promise that while he might be the one who built the cage, he would also be the one to die defending it.

"Forgive me for the shadows, Songbird," he whispered against your skin, his voice a low chime. "But the world is finally quiet. And I am here to listen."

The Songbird’s Heart

A soft, stuttered breath escaped you as his lips lingered against your forehead. The cool touch of his porcelain skin felt like a brand, sending a rush of heat to your cheeks that no amount of noble composure could hide. You looked up at him, your gaze searching the crimson depths of his eyes.

“Then… can we learn from each other?” you asked, your voice barely a whisper, yet filled with a sudden, genuine hunger. “Every fear, every dream… even the hopes you think are lost?”

Jestyn’s eyes fluttered shut as he leaned in, breathing in your scent as if it were the only thing keeping his gears turning.

“Of course, Songbird,” he murmured, his voice dropping into a hoarse, devoted register that made your skin tingle. “Just… do not disappear. Do not misunderstand the depths of what I feel for you.”

Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic rhythm that felt dangerously close to desire. For a fleeting, breathless second, the temptation to close the distance and press your lips to his was so strong it made you dizzy—but you forced the thought away, clinging to the last remnants of your restraint.

The moment was fractured by the sound of heavy, rhythmic footsteps. Knighter appeared in the clearing, his expression as cold and immovable as iron. He didn't even blink at the sight of the King holding you with such desperate tenderness.

“Your Highness… Wizzy is waiting for you in the library,” he announced, his voice a sharp contrast to the soft evening air.

“Thank you, Knighter. I am coming,” Jestyn replied, though he did not let go. He turned his gaze back to you, his smile softening into something saint-like.

“Scort the Songbird to their room. Ensure they are comfortable.” As you moved to stand, he caught your hand, his fingers halting you with a gentle but firm pressure.

He didn't let go until he had raised your palm to his lips, pressing a slow, lingering kiss against the soft skin. The contrast was startling—your warmth against the smooth, unyielding porcelain of his hand.

“I will return soon, my Songbird~” he promised, his voice a low chime. “I wish to hear more of your heart… and more of your soul.”

As you walked back under Knighter’s silent watch, you felt as though the very fabric of your being had been laid bare. For twenty-five years, you had been the perfect noble—a discreet shield of etiquette, hiding your true self behind brushes, poetry, and songs. You had transformed your emotions into art so no one could ever truly touch them.

But now, the shield was gone. Every night, the memory of his seventeen-year devotion played in your mind like a haunting loop of music. Your body still hummed from the ghost of his touch on your forehead and your palm. You were still terrified of the shadows he carried, but beneath the fear, your heart was blooming—a wild, vibrant flower cracking through the stone of its cage for the very first time.

Mannerisms & Shared Life

The weeks following the confession were a slow, beautiful unraveling of the King’s iron rules. You began to see the "man" within the marionette through the small, quiet habits you formed together.

One morning, Jestyn dismissed the royal tailors who usually brought only somber crimsons and blacks. He watched you with an unreadable expression as he gestured to a sea of silks in every shade imaginable

"I have lived in a world of soot and gears for too long, Songbird. Wear the colors of your own heart. I wish to see the palace through your eyes." Seeing you in vibrant greens, soft blues, or warm golds became his new favorite "art."

During the quiet afternoons, you taught him the "soft-skin" logic of emotions—why you felt a certain way when the rain fell, or why a specific melody made you nostalgic.

In return, he taught you the Arcane Logic of the kingdom. He would let you sit behind him as he worked on clockwork schematics, his hand guiding yours over the cold brass gears, explaining how every piece had a purpose—just as you had a purpose in his life.

The true test of your new bond came during the Midsummer Gala. The Great Hall was a sea of the Golden Circle’s elite, all of them whispering about the "Gilded Canary" who had finally captured the King's undivided attention.

You arrived at the throne, dressed in a stunning gown/attire of your own choosing—a bold departure from the palace's dark energy. Depending on your choice, the silhouette you chose for the night was a masterpiece of royal craftsmanship:

• For Female Readers: Your gown was a breathtaking display of ethereal light. The bodice featured an open, off-the-shoulder neckline held by delicate, gem-encrusted straps.

The sleeves were a sheer, flowing mesh that cascaded down like liquid starlight, while the entire gown was draped in intricate webs of gold chains and shimmering beads that glowed against the dark fabric like a constellation.

• For Male Readers: You opted for a look of sharp, romantic elegance. You wore a voluminous, high-collared tunic made of heavy ivory satin with dramatic, ruffled lapels and billowed sleeves.

This was cinched tightly by a high-waisted, black-laced corset that provided a rigid, masculine structure to the fluid silk, creating a silhouette that was both commanding and sophisticated.

• For Gender-Neutral Readers: Your attire merged grace with architectural detail. You wore an ivory silk blouse with high, pleated cuffs and gold embroidery at the throat.

Over this sat a unique black waistcoat that transitioned into an asymmetrical, floor-length skirted panel on one side. The entire look was layered with gold filigree and delicate chains that draped from your shoulder to your hip, moving like smoke as you walked.

When you reached the dais, the court expected you to take the smaller, lower chair to the King's left. Instead, as you moved to sit, Jestyn’s dark-soft hand shot out, catching your waist. With a strength that was as effortless as it was undeniable, he pulled you backward. The court gasped in a collective, hushed intake of breath as you settled firmly onto the King’s lap.

He didn't care for the scandal. He shifted his large frame so that you were cradled securely against his chest, his long arm wrapping around your waist like a band of iron.

"Your Majesty... the nobles are staring," you whispered, your heart racing with that now-familiar rush of heat.

"Let them stare," Jestyn replied, his voice a low, melodic chime that vibrated through your spine. He leaned down, resting his chin on your shoulder, his crimson eyes scanning the crowd with a cold, protective fire.

"They need to understand that the throne is only stone and metal. You are the only kingdom I care to rule." Throughout the night, he refused to let you move.

He fed you small delicacies with his own hands and listened only to your voice, effectively turning the most public moment of the year into your most intimate secret. You were no longer just a noble of the Golden Circle; you were the heart of the King.

The Invitation of the Rose

One afternoon, you were strolling through the private gardens, your lace umbrella shielding you from the golden sun. You smiled as you watched the birds; the real ones sang from the trees while the mechanical ones chirped from the brass hedges in a perfect, eerie harmony. Your peace was interrupted by a frantic patter of footsteps.

Mary arrived, slightly out of breath, her cap tilted and her face flushed from running. She held a silver tray with both hands, clutching it so tightly her knuckles were white despite being marionette.

“Oh, thank goodness I found you, Song—I mean, My Lady/Lord!” Mary stammered, her voice high and nervous. She looked over her shoulder toward the palace spires, as if she expected the King himself to be watching the clock.

“His Majesty was quite… particular about the timing. He told me if this didn't reach you before the clock struck four, I’d be spending my evening polishing every single gear in the lower barracks!” She gave a shaky, hurried curtsy, extending the tray toward you.

Upon it lay a heavy, cream-colored envelope sealed with the King’s private crest in black wax.

“Please, read it quickly,” she whispered, her eyes wide. “He’s waiting by the willows, and I’ve never seen him so… focused. It’s like the whole palace is holding its breath.”

You took the envelope, your fingers trembling as you recognized the elegant, sharp script:

—————————————————————————

My Dearest Songbird:

The palace feels hollow today, even with the gears turning. I find myself counting the seconds until I can hear the honest rhythm of your heart again. I have prepared a secluded spot by the willow trees—a picnic for just the two of us, far from the prying eyes of the court.

I ask that you wear something light, something fresh—perhaps that summer attire you chose for yourself. I wish to see you unburdened by the heavy silks of the court, just for this afternoon.

Come to me when the sun begins to dip. I have secrets to share that are meant only for your ears.

— Your King Jestyn The First

—————————————————————————

You clutched the letter to your chest, your skin flushing a deep, traitorous pink. Mary lingered for a second, seeing the look on your face, before she scurried away with a nervous glance back. It wasn't just the thought of the picnic that made your pulse race; it was the way your body reacted to his simple request.

A sudden, heavy heat pooled in your core—a physical betrayal of the "discreet noble" you were supposed to be.

You had spent years being courted by the elite, yet a few ink-strokes from this mechanical King had you breathless and aching. As you looked toward the willow trees in the distance, you felt a surge of urgent excitement.

You weren't just going for a walk in the garden. You were walking toward a hunger you finally realized was mutual, and as the afternoon shadows lengthened, you knew that today, the King might want to see more than just your smile.

————————————————————-

Author Note:

I hope you enjoyed this piece of the puzzle! It may be a bit shorter than usual, but I wanted to focus on those sweet, meaningful shifts in their bond.

Stay tuned: The next chapter is going to be both spicy and tender, so consider yourselves warned! 🥀🖤

The Songbird’s Routine

After that first dinner, a hollow terror settled into your bones. You had faced strict tutors and envious, sharp-tongued nobles your entire life; your parents had taught you to wear your noble composure like a suit of armor. But King Jestyn had shattered that shield with a single snarl. You were no longer just a noble—you were a creature belonging to a monarch who was both your greatest admirer and your most dangerous jailer.

You did not see Jestyn for a time, though his presence was a constant, suffocating weight. There were nights when you felt the temperature drop and heard a low, humming voice outside your door. You would wake to find handwritten notes on your nightstand—observations of your day, praise for your voice, or commands to eat.

During your supervised walks in the gardens, you began to learn the landscape of the King’s inner circle. Knighter was a silent shadow, cold and brutally honest. He made it clear that his loyalty was absolute; he was the King’s iron hand, and he would follow you to the ends of the earth if Jestyn willed it. Wizzy, the court wizard, offered a different kind of distraction, sharing the arcane logic of the kingdom’s magic. And then there was Prieston. In the silence of the chapel, you found yourself confessing your rage and sorrow to the Priest, needing a soul to hear your frustration before it consumed you.

The Muse and the Memory

After two weeks of mourning your freedom, the inspiration you had tried to suppress finally clawed its way out. Lucille and Mary set up your atelier within the Glass Dome. You needed the canvas; you needed a place to bleed your feelings into pigments.

For the Female Reader

You are dressed in a gown that evokes a "cottagecore" softness mixed with noble elegance. The foundation is a cream-colored linen chemise with a high, ruffled collar and puffed sleeves that gather into tiered ruffles at the elbows. Over it, you wear a rich rust-red kirtle with a laced bodice that cinches comfortably, allowing you to breathe as you work.

The look is finished with matching laced gauntlets over your forearms to protect your sleeves from stray paint, keeping you refined and ready as you lose yourself in the nostalgic strokes of your brush.

For the Male Reader

You wear an ensemble that balances structured nobility with artistic flair. The base is a billowing white poet’s shirt with voluminous sleeves that gather at the wrists, allowing for easy movement for your painting. Over this is a deep crimson velvet waistcoat, richly adorned with golden-mustard panels and intricate white embroidery that curls like cresting waves.

Large, shimmering gemstones are embedded along the lapels, catching the morning light as it filters through the glass dome, making you look as much like a masterpiece as the canvas before you.

For the Gender-Neutral Reader

Your attire is a striking, sharp-lined tunic and surcoat set that feels both protective and regal. You wear a tapered black undershirt with narrow sleeves, layered beneath a structured crimson and black surcoat. The garment is heavily bordered with thick bronze-gold brocade featuring geometric swirls.

A matching short mantle is fastened at the throat with a delicate ribbon, framing your face as you focus on your work. The bold contrast of the deep red and black reflects the elegance sophistication of the kingdom, serving as a silent reminder of your standing even in your moments of solitude.

As you began to paint a mechanical bird perched upon a golden branch, you noticed how still it sat. It watched you with unblinking eyes, acting as a tiny, haunting muse. A wave of nostalgia transported you back to your eighth year—to a secluded, ivy-covered gazebo in the park.

17 years ago

"Birdie!" you had cried out, captivated by its different, artificial beauty.

That fascination had defined your youth. Your father had eventually gifted you a unique wooden bird with golden filigree—a toy that whistled a hauntingly beautiful melody sharp.

“Come here birdie! I’m not gonna hurt you!” You innocently shouted happily laughing as you whistled your bird whistler.

You had always chased the birds—real and mechanical alike—giggling as you tried to mimic their songs with your wooden whistle. But your joy was cut short when you tripped on a stray root. Your most precious possession, the golden-decorated whistle your father had gifted you, skittered across the stone floor and stopped at the heavy leather boots of a stranger.

You burst into tears, the stinging pain in your scraped knee staining your white sock a bright, terrifying red. Through your blurred vision, you saw a figure kneeling before you.

“Are you hurt? Is this yours?” The voice was gentle, but it had a strange, melodic resonance, like a bell ringing in a quiet hall.

You looked up, your lower lip trembling. The boy was older—15 years older —with a frame that seemed too tall and sharp for his age. He was dressed in the heavy, somber silks of a prince in mourning, and his eyes were a startling, deep crimson. He didn't look like the other children; he looked like a statue that had been forced to breathe.

“I’m sorry… I was chasing the birdies…” you whined, clutching your scraped knee.

The boy didn't mock your tears. Instead, he picked up the toy with a grace that felt ancient. He blew into the whistle, creating that beautiful, haunting sound you loved so much. You stopped crying, stunned that this tall, somber boy would play with your toy.

“You like birdies like me?…” you asked innocently.

The boy looked at the whistle, then back at you, a soft, almost sad smile touching his lips. “I like things that are honest,” he replied quietly. “Birds do not lie when they sing. And you... you have a very honest heart, little one.”

He reached into his silk tunic and pulled out a clean, lace-trimmed handkerchief. You watched in awe as he leaned down to gently dab the blood from your knee. His hands were already starting to feel cold and porcelain-smooth, but his touch was incredibly careful, as if he were afraid you might break under his fingers.

“Does it still sting?” he asked, looking at you with an intensity that made you tilt your head.

“A little,” you whispered, fascinated by his red eyes. “My papa says birds are the best because they can fly away from anything. Do you want to fly away too?”

The boy’s smile faltered, his gaze turning toward the distant palace spires. “I cannot fly,” he murmured, his voice dropping into that low, melodic chime. “I have too many gears holding me to the earth. But perhaps... if I listen to your song, I will remember what the sky feels like.”

You giggled, not fully understanding his words, and spent the next hour sitting by the fountain, telling him about your favorite trees and the names you gave to the cats. He mostly listened, his crimson eyes never leaving your face, as if he were memorizing the way your nose crinkled when you laughed.

When it was finally time for you to go, he handed the whistle back. His cold fingers brushed against yours, sending a strange, lasting shiver through your small frame.

“A Songbird should always keep its voice,” he whispered.

“What's your name?” you asked, your 8-year-old curiosity finally winning.

He didn't give you a title. He simply leaned in and whispered a promise you were too young for an 8 years old to understand: “I am the one who will listen when the world goes quiet.”

You carried that whistle everywhere until you were twelve. That was the year a group of noble bullies snatched it from your hands. You were heartbroken, sobbing for days over the loss of your father’s gift. Your father, a powerful figure in The Golden Circle, had been livid. He had descended upon the bullies' families with a cold fury, forcing them to pay a massive sum in restitution for the theft.

But despite the money and the punishment, the toy never returned. The bullies had apologized to you personally, their faces pale with a genuine, desperate terror as they swore they hadn't lied—they truly could not find where the whistle had gone.

The Architect of the Gallery

Back in the present, your brush clattered to the floor, the sound echoing sharply against the glass dome. The realization hit you with the force of a physical blow—the bullies hadn't lost your father’s whistle. They had been terrified because it had been taken by someone they couldn't even see.

The boy from the fountain hadn't just been a passing stranger; he was a silent architect of your destiny. You thought of the King’s secret gallery, a vault of your life’s milestones. You vividly remembered your eighteenth year—the transition from a student to a true artist under the guidance of Aethelgard.

It was then that Aethelgard painted your first favorite portrait: a self-likeness of you at eighteen, cradling your black cat. It was a piece that captured your emerging soul, yet before it could even be hung in your family home, it was sold to an anonymous buyer in the dead of night. You had been devastated, and shortly after, your mentor vanished without a trace.

Now, staring at the King, the math finally settled in your mind with a chilling clarity. When you were that eighteen-year-old artist, he was already a King of twenty-five. He hadn't been watching a child; he had been admiring a muse. He had waited seven more years, watching you flourish into the twenty-five-year-old noble standing before him now at thirty-two.

The boy who held your father’s gift at fifteen, the twenty-five-year-old Sovereign who "stole" your portrait from the market, and the thirty-two-year-old King who claimed you at your debut—they were all the same shadow. King Jestyn hadn't just stumbled upon you; he had been cultivating his "Songbird" for seventeen years, waiting for the moment you were finally "complete" enough for him to close the door on the world and keep you forever.

The Shadow in the Dome

A sharp, suffocating anxiety flared in your chest, making your breath come in short, jagged hitches. Even the mechanical bird on your canvas seemed to react, its brass head tilting as its beady eyes mirrored your mounting dread. The "itch" in your soul was no longer a mystery—it was a trap that had been set a decade ago.

Then, through the heavy silence of the Glass Dome, you heard it.

“COO!~”

It was the exact, haunting melody of your father’s gift—the one the bullies had "lost." It was so clear, so perfect, that for a moment you thought you were finally losing your mind to the ghosts of your past. You looked around wildly, eyes darting between the fluttering wings of the garden's birds, searching for the source of the sound.

Before you could turn, the world went dark.

A large, cool hand—smelling of iron and crushed roses—slipped over your eyes, plunging you into shadow. Simultaneously, a heavy, solid weight pressed against your back as you were pulled into a relentless embrace. The heartbeat hum of a life force vibrated through your spine, anchoring you to his chest.

“My Songbird~” The King’s voice was a low, melodic chime right against the shell of your ear, sending a treacherous shiver down your neck. “What has made you so scared? Why does your heart beat like a trapped thing against its cage?”

The River of Glass and Gears

“Y-Your Highness...?” The stutter slipped out—a crack in your noble armor that you usually guarded with iron-clad discipline. But here, in the shadow of his presence, you were unraveling.

King Jestyn didn't let the moment pass. He turned you around with a slow, deliberate grace, forcing you to face him. He could likely feel the frantic rhythm of your pulse and the cold sweat of anxiety on your skin. Without a word, he took your hand in his, his large, dark-soft fingers closing around yours with a grip that was both a caress and a shackle.

“Come with me, Songbird,” he murmured, his crimson eyes softening into something deceptively gentle. “Let us walk. There are things that need to be said.”

You nodded wordlessly, your heart heavy with the fear that he was still harboring the cold ire from your argument at the dinner hall. He led you through a path of silver-leafed trees until you reached a hidden river. It was breathtaking—a ribbon of shimmering water choked with bioluminescent lotus flowers, where real swans glided past clockwork herons.

“Your Majesty... why have you brought me here?” you whispered, looking up at his towering large frame.

“I wish to apologize,” you began, lowering your gaze in a practiced move of noble submission.

But before the words could fully leave your lips, he hooked a finger under your chin, tilting your head back up. Your mind screamed to protest, to demand your freedom, but the words died in your throat.

“No, I am the one who should apologize. I am sorry for scaring you that night, Y/N” Jestyn corrected, his voice a low, melodic chime.

Your eyes widened. You searched his face for a lie, for a king’s cruelty, but you found only a haunting sincerity.

“But—I—” You tried to speak, but he silenced you by pressing a cool finger against your lips.

“I am a king who simply... admires brilliance,” he said, leading you toward a carved stone bench. He waited for you to sit before settling beside you, his presence looming but no longer predatory.

“I seek the unique. Those with bright minds who see the world through a lens others cannot even perceive.” He looked out across the water, his gaze distant and solemn.

“I know what they call me in the streets. A monster. A vile, ruthless royal. They fear the iron with which I rule, yet they admire the peace it buys.”

A heavy silence fell between you, broken only by the rhythmic clicking of the mechanical creatures in the reeds.

“My greatest fear is the silence, Songbird,” he confessed, his voice dropping an octave. “The empty halls... the hollow sound of gears turning with no soul to hear them. I know my kingdom is made of metal, but even a heart of clockwork can feel the cold.”

He turned to look at you, his crimson eyes searching yours at eye level. “You know that I lost my mother and father when I was very young, do you not?”

You jolted at the sudden vulnerability. “Indeed, Your Majesty. The entire Golden Circle mourned... the other kingdoms sought to exploit the crown’s grief. We were told you had to be protected.”

“Protected,” he repeated with a dry, mirthless smile.

A sudden, electric realization surged through you. The way he spoke, the way he watched you—it triggered a memory you had buried under years of noble etiquette. Without thinking, you reached out and took his hand.

“Your Majesty... may I ask something?”your fingers curling around his porcelain-smooth palm.

“You may,” he replied, his hand twitching slightly at your touch but not pulling away.

“The boy at the park... the one who sat by the fountain while I cried...” Your voice was barely a whisper, thick with a decade of forgotten truth.

“Was it you? Have you... have you been caring for me since then?” You ask as you looked up to his face.

Jestyn’s eyes widened, the crimson glow within them flickering like a dying candle before flaring with a sudden, intense light. He didn't answer immediately, but the way his fingers tightened around yours—possessive, desperate, and ancient—was all the confirmation you needed.

—————————————————————————

Author’s Note for the Post:

To clarify the timeline for those curious! Jestyn and Y/N met innocently with a small and brief friendship as kids (8 & 15), but the 'obsession' really began when Jestyn was a 25-year-old King and saw Y/N's portrait at age 18-year-old. Now, at ages 25 and 32, the 'Gilded Cage' is finally complete! 🥀🖤

Part 1: https://www.tumblr.com/retro1307/815064159924502528/the-gilded-canary-king-jestyn-x-gn-noble

Part 2: https://www.tumblr.com/retro1307/815470000885399552/the-gilded-canary-king-jestyn-x-gn-noble

The King’s New Masterpiece

The news rippled through the Golden Circle like a violent storm. The scandal was absolute; the kingdom’s most prestigious artistic noble had been claimed. Citizens and nobles alike, who had once competed for a moment of your time at night galas or afternoon teas, were left in a state of shock. Your former suitors were consumed by a bitter, helpless fury upon hearing that King Jestyn I had claimed you—not as a fiancé, but as his Beloved Songbird.

Back at your family estate, the silence in your artistic studio was deafening. Your parents were devastated, paralyzed by the realization that you had not returned from your "afternoon tea." It became hours and a day after that invitation.

The King’s personal guard, Knighter, arrived at the estate with the heavy tread of an executioner. He offered no words, his armored presence a cold shadow in the warm foyer of your family home. He held out a thick, cream-colored parchment sealed with the King’s jagged crown in black wax. Your mother and father reached for it together, their hands trembling as if the paper itself were made of lead.

—————————————————————————

The Royal Decree: A Letter to the Family

To the House of [Your Surname],

We write to inform you that your [son/daughter/child]’s presence has proven to be an essential component of the Crown’s well-being. Their talents are no longer to be wasted on the fleeting whims of the Golden Circle, nor are they to be bartered for the petty interests of suitors.

By Royal Decree, Y/N is now the Sovereign’s Songbird. They shall reside within the Imperial Conservatory under our personal protection and care. Consider their previous obligations to your house fulfilled. They belong to the throne now.

Do not attempt to seek an audience. The King’s treasures are not for public viewing.

— By the Hand of King Jestyn I.

———————————————————————-

As they read the royal decree, the air seemed to leave the room. Your mother collapsed to her knees, the sound of her knees hitting the marble echoing like a gavel. Her "Beloved Canary," her pride and joy, had been taken by the ruthless, cold King.

“Not my child! Not my beloved canary!” your mother wailed, her voice fracturing with a grief that tore through the silent house. She clutched the letter to her chest, crushing the expensive parchment as if she could pull you out from between the lines. “Our child... they've been stolen by a monster!”

Madeleine, your personal maid, rushed forward. She dropped to the floor, her own face ashen as she wrapped her arms around your mother, trying to anchor her. Madeleine felt a sickening weight in her gut—she was the one who had handed you the first invitation. She felt like the gatekeeper who had unknowingly locked your cage.

Your father remained standing, but he was shaken to his core. He looked like a man who had witnessed a murder, his face pale and his eyes darting frantically across the room. He began to pace, his hands tugging at his hair as he searched for a logic that didn't exist.

“There must be a way,” he hissed, his voice thin and desperate. “I will go to the council... I will speak to the other Lords of the Golden Circle! No King can simply seize a noble heir as a plaything! We have laws! We have rights!”

But even as he spoke, his eyes fell on Knighter, who stood motionless at the door. The knight’s silence was the only answer he needed. In King Jestyn’s realm, the law was whatever the King desired, and he had desired you.

The carriage that had carried you away was already miles beyond the iron gates.

Knighter turned and walked away without a single word of comfort. As he marched toward the palace, he remembered the way he had escorted you—the way you looked through the carriage window, a mix of noble grace and dawning terror, as you were driven toward the Kingdom that would become your beautiful, eternal cage.

The Songbird’s Golden Cage

As you were led through the sprawling, silent halls of the palace, you fought to keep your head high. You wore your noble dignity like a fraying shield, though, behind your ribs, your heart felt like a bird battering itself against a stone wall.

It wasn't just your title or your status that had been stolen—it was your very self.

Your autonomy, your laughter shared with friends, and the warmth of your parents' hearth had been traded for a crown’s whim. You feared the unknown; you feared being a mere plaything for a King whose power was absolute.

You knew the mechanics of intimacy, the "duty" often expected of noble pairings, and the thought of being forced into such a role by a man who looked at you like a prized specimen made your skin crawl with dread. Yet, you recalled the rumors—he had never touched a suitor, never accepted a consort. His isolation was legendary, which only made his sudden, violent claim on you more terrifying.

You were guided to a set of towering double doors. When they swung open, the breath left your lungs.

The room was not a cell; it was a sanctuary of high-fantasy opulence, draped in the heavy, velvet shadows of Monarch luxury. At the center stood a massive four-poster bed, its dark wood carved with intricate vines and thorns. Heavy, plum-colored velvet curtains were pulled back with golden tassels, revealing delicate, floor-length lace embroidered with pale pink roses that filtered the moonlight into soft, ghostly patterns across the silk sheets.

To the side sat an ornate mahogany vanity and a writing desk equipped with the finest vellum and gold-nibbed pens. But the most shocking detail lay in the corner: a complete artistic atelier.

There were fresh canvases, professional-grade brushes, and even a collection of pigments you had once mentioned in passing. Your favorite instrument leaned against a velvet chaise longue, its strings tuned and waiting. It was a room designed by someone who hadn't just watched you, but had studied the very architecture of your joy—and then moved it into a fortress.

You stood in the center of the plush rug, feeling the weight of the silence. The maids and butlers watched you with grim, downcast eyes, their mechanical joints clicking softly as they witnessed your silent mourning.

“My [Lady/Lord]… we hope this is to your liking,” Lucille, the head maid marionette, said.

“The King decreed this shall be your sanctuary from this day forth. He noted that if there is anything at all—that fails to meet your desires, you are to ask him personally.” Her porcelain face was fixed in a mask of professional sorrow.

“Thank you… you may leave,” you said, your voice hollow. You didn't turn to face them. You only stared at the silver tray of lunch left on the table, the steam rising from a dish prepared exactly to your mother’s secret recipe.

The door clicked shut, the heavy bolt sliding home with a finality that echoed in your soul. You were the most pampered captive in the history of the realm.

The Outrage and the Pull

The lunch sat untouched on the silver tray, the steam long since vanished, replaced by a cold, clinical stillness. You couldn't bring yourself to eat. Every bite would feel like accepting a bribe, a silent contract that you were content in this prison. Instead, you threw yourself onto the massive bed, burying your face in the cool silk of the pillows as a wave of terror and fury washed over you.

How had a simple debut—a task you viewed with the same detached professionalism as a charcoal sketch or a stanza of poetry—ended with you becoming the King’s Songbird?

That title made your blood boil. In the Golden Circle, you were a name, a prestige, a talent. People called you "Canary" as a flattering nickname, a tribute to your voice. But when Jestyn said it... when he called you his Songbird, it didn't feel like a title. It felt like a brand.

It left a lingering, itchy heat in your core that you couldn't scratch away.

You rolled onto your back, staring up at the velvet canopy, your mind racing through the events of the afternoon. You could still feel the phantom weight of his hand against yours—that smooth, marble-cold skin and the mechanical hum of his life force that had sent a jolt through your system. You hated how vividly you remembered his embrace in the gallery, the way he hovered over you while revealing years of stolen moments captured on canvas.

He had known you as a teenager. He had watched you grow into an adult through the eyes of a painter he had bought and paid for. He knew your favorite pigments, your favorite tea, your secret melodies.

It was an invasion of the soul.

"I hate him," you hissed into the empty, opulent room, your hands clenching into the expensive duvet. "I should hate him."

But that was the source of the true outrage: the terrifying, magnetic pull you felt toward the very man who had shattered your life. You had spent years around the most handsome and wealthy suitors in the realm, and they had moved you no more than a pile of dust. Yet here was this monster—this relentless, unreasonable King—and one touch from his taloned hand had made you feel more "alive" than you had ever been.

You grabbed a pillow and screamed into it, a muffled sound of pure, helpless frustration. You were angry at his arrogance, angry at your family’s grief, but most of all, you were terrified by the dawning realization that your body was already beginning to crave the "predator" who had finally caught you.

The First Night with The King

Exhaustion eventually won over your rage, and you fell into a heavy, dreamless sleep. You were unaware of the door creaking open until a soft, flickering light pierced through your eyelids. Mary, a young marionette maid with wide, nervous eyes, stood by the bed, her hand trembling slightly as she held a silver candelight.

“Miss/Mister… Are you awake?” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the crackle of the wax.

You groaned, pushing yourself up from the silk pillows, the disorientation of the palace settling over you like a shroud. The room was bathed in the deep indigo of night.

“My apologies. My name is Mary, your personal maid,” she introduced herself shyly, her gaze flitting to the floor.

“What time is it?” you asked, your voice raspy from sleep and the silent screams of the afternoon.

“It is nearly dinner time. His Majesty… has requested you get ready to join him,” she said, her voice trailing off as she noted your cold expression. She knew, as the whole palace did, that you were a Songbird who had no intention of singing.

“Did he request anything else?” you asked, crossing your arms and maintaining your wall of noble reluctance.

“Only that you wear the attire he has provided,” Mary replied. On her signal, three other maids entered, carrying a garment so luxurious it seemed to drink in the candlelight.

For Female Readers:

The gown was a masterpiece of deep crimson brocade, its fabric embossed with subtle, swirling patterns that felt like a secret to the touch. The off-the-shoulder neckline was framed by delicate, cream-colored lace that mimicked the intricate frost on a winter window. Draped across the bodice were tiers of shimmering pearls that caught the light with every movement, while the sleeves flared into dramatic, ruffled lace cuffs. It was a dress that demanded a presence—regal, alluring, and dangerously beautiful.

For Male Readers:

The ensemble was a striking blend of aristocratic and royal elegance. A rich, ruby-red silk blouse with cascading ruffles at the chest provided a soft contrast to the structured, high-waisted black trousers. A lace-up cincher hugged your frame, lending a sharp, predatory silhouette to your form. Strands of pearls and gold chains were draped across your shoulder like a sash of honor, while the long, flaring sleeves ended in tight, buttoned cuffs that made your hands look elegant and lethal.

For Gender-Neutral Readers:

The outfit was a breathtaking display of androgynous grace. It featured a flowing, sheer blouse in a dark wine hue, cinched at the waist by an ornate golden belt of embossed coins. Over the shoulders lay a heavy, floor-length wrap in deep teal and bronze, covered in celestial and alchemical patterns that looked like ancient magic.

You couldn't deny the King's eye for perfection. This wasn't just clothing; it was a costume for a masterpiece he was finally putting on display. While the lavishness of the silk against your skin felt like a caress, the "itch" of his possession remained.

The maids worked with a practiced, silent efficiency, preparing you just as they had back at your family mansion before a grand gala. But as you caught your reflection in the tall, ornate mirror, you didn't see the noble heir of your house. You saw the King’s Songbird, dressed in his colors, waiting to be summoned to his table.

You breathed in the scent of rosewater and iron, feeling the terrifying, magnetic pull of the man waiting for you at the end of the hall.

The Dinner Hall

You walked with a heavy, calculated reluctance, keeping your gaze fixed forward. You refused to look at the maids or butlers; you wouldn't be the "pitiful noble" or the "broken bird" for their gossip. You had decided that while he could imprison your body, he would not have the pleasure of your spirit. Not tonight.

At the entrance to the grand hall, you crossed paths with Knighter. You met his indifferent stare with a blank, icy mask.

“Do not think me afraid,” you murmured, your voice steady despite the hammer of your heart.

“Do not make the King angry,” Knighter replied, his voice a cold, metallic rasp that offered no comfort. “That is all I suggest.”

With a sharp intake of breath, the heavy doors groaned open. You saw him immediately. King Jestyn sat at the head of a table that seemed miles long, laden with fruits, meats, and desserts that looked like a feast for a god. You expected to be seated at the far end—to keep the distance of a servant—but to your shock, the only other chair was placed directly at his right hand.

“Good evening, my Songbird,” he purred, a wolfish grin spreading across his face as he leaned his chin on a gloved hand.

His crimson eyes traced the lines of your new attire. “I see you look radiant in my colors.”

“Good evening, Your Majesty,” you replied, your voice clipped and professional.

“I see you have arranged... everything for me.”You avoided his gaze as you sat, the heavy velvet of your chair feeling like a trap.

“Do you like your new sanctuary?” he asked, his tone deceptively casual. “I ensured every canvas and every string was to your liking.”

“It is surprising,” you said, staring at the plate the butler placed before you—your favorite dish, prepared with terrifying accuracy. “Especially considering how long you have been watching. Even when I was a teenager...”

“True,” Jestyn conceded, the clicking of his cutlery the only other sound in the room.

“Back then, I was surrounded by suitors who sought my throne. They were hollow, Y/N. Humans and marionettes alike—beautiful shells with no fire, no bright thoughts. They bored me.”

“But when I saw your portrait in the secret gallery of The Great Weaver, Aethelgard, you stole the very air from my lungs. No beauty, no consort, has ever made me breathless. You had the serenity of a deity—a god of knowledge and talent.” He paused, his crimson eye gleaming in the candlelight.

You tried to focus on your meal, desperate to maintain your shield of indifference, but the air in the room seemed to thicken. Suddenly, his large, cool hand reached out, his fingers hooking beneath your chin to force your head up.

“Do not give me the silent treatment, Songbird,” he whispered.

“I have curated a life for you that most would die for. No one else has been given the world I have laid at your feet.” his voice dropping into that "Immovable" tone from the lore.

“Your Majesty... I am a mere human. A ‘soft-skin,’ as your kind says. I am not a god/goddess/deity.” You felt a treacherous heat rise to your cheeks, your body betraying you with a blush you couldn't suppress.

A gasp escaped your lips as he moved his hand from your chin to cup your cheek. It was his black hand—the one lost to history, the limb no one in the kingdom dared to speak of. It was smooth, soft as midnight, and terrifyingly cold. You trembled beneath his touch, caught between the urge to flinch away and the magnetic, soul-deep pull to lean into his palm.

The Ignite

You could feel your heart hammering against your ribs, a frantic, taunting drum that echoed in the heavy silence of the hall. As he caressed your face, King Jestyn didn't wait for permission; he reached out and pulled you toward him, effortlessly lifting you to sit upon his left knee.

You felt small against his massive frame, perched like a sacred idol before a worshiper who didn't know the meaning of "enough."

He looked at you with those twin crimson eyes, his gaze heavy with a reverence that felt like a weight.

“Look at you,” he murmured, his voice a low, vibrating rasp that seemed to rattle your very bones.

“Your skin is so soft, like the finest silk… a frame so perfect that the high-ranking marionettes would trade their immortal cores just to possess a fraction of your grace.” His large hand slid down to squeeze your hip, his fingers firm and possessive.

Your breath hitched, a sharp, involuntary sound that seemed to delight him. You had studied the anatomy of his kind. You knew that marionettes were not hollow shells; they had complex organs, intricate gears, and a life force that hummed with a cold, terrifying logic. But you had never expected this proximity to make your core tremble.

In your former life, suitors had tried everything to ignite your interest—respectful kisses on the hand, lingering embraces, the gentle tucking of hair behind your ear. You had felt nothing but a polite, freezing boredom. You had grunted at their sugar-coated words, finding them hollow and frail.

But here, in the iron grip of King Jestyn, something dangerous had finally sparked.

It was a dark, liquid heat that surged through your veins—a fire that didn't just warm you, but threatened to consume everything you were.

It was the "Red Fuel" of attraction, an allure so magnetic that even as your mind screamed to run, your body felt a treacherous urge to lean closer to the cold, mechanical hum of his chest.

“Your Highness…” you whispered, your voice trembling as you forced yourself to look into his face, your fists clenching white-knuckled in your lap.

“Why me? Is it truly just the talent? Is it only because I am a masterpiece for your collection?”

Jestyn’s expression shifted, the wolfish grin fading into something more solemn, more intense. He leaned in until your foreheads nearly touched, the heat of your breath mingling with the chill of his porcelain skin.

“Talent is a common coin, Songbird,” he whispered, his thumb tracing the line of your lower lip.

“But a soul that burns as bright as yours? A mind that sees the world with such clarity even in the face of a monster? That is the only treasure worth owning. I do not want you because you sing. I want you because you are the only thing in this hollow kingdom that makes me feel like more than just a machine.” He says as his other hand embraces you completely.

The Shattered Song

You sat on his lap, the dangerous spark of attraction still warm in your blood, but the thought of your mother’s wails and your father’s ashen face acted like ice. Your heart hammered against your ribs, not with desire, but with a dawning, frantic realization.

“If my soul is truly the treasure you claim it to be,” you began, your voice gaining a desperate, sharp edge.

You didn't wait for his permission. You placed your hands against the cold, velvet-covered plates of his chest and pushed, standing up abruptly to put distance between your soft frame and his mechanical gravity.

“Then you must know that my soul is dying here, Jestyn. A soul cannot burn in a vacuum. It needs its roots. If you truly admire me, then let me return to my family. Let me go home, and I will come to you—I will sing for you—but not as a captive. Not like this.” You stood a few feet away, your chest heaving as you looked back at him sitting on the throne-like chair.

The air in the hall didn't just turn cold; it became heavy, as if the oxygen had been replaced by iron. Jestyn didn't move at first. He sat there, his large black hand still hovering in the empty air where your waist had been just moments before.

“No”

The word was a leaden weight dropped into a silent well.

“No?” You recoiled, a surge of pure, hot rage finally breaking through your noble composure. You gestured wildly to the opulent room, the expensive food, and the heavy crimson silk he had forced you to wear.

“You claim to admire my mind, yet you treat me like a mindless doll! You speak of my 'bright spirit' while you intentionally snuff it out by keeping me from everyone I love!” You moved your hands desperately like shaking invisible shackles from your own cage.

Jestyn rose slowly, his 215 cm frame unfolding like a dark omen. He didn't shout; he didn't need to. He stalked toward you, his boots clicking against the marble with a rhythmic finality that matched the gnashing of his teeth.

“I tell you no because they do not deserve the light you cast,” he hissed, his twin crimson eyes beginning to glow an incandescent, violent red.

“They would marry you off for a title. They would use your talent to decorate their boring lives. I am the only one who truly sees you. I tell you no because the world is full of hands waiting to steal you away from me, and I will burn this kingdom to ash before I let that happen.” He backed you against the heavy mahogany table until your spine hit the wood and you could retreat no further.

“You’re a monster!”

You screamed, your voice cracking.

“I am your King!”

He growled, his face inches from yours, his presence suffocating.

“Do not make me ask you to submit again, Songbird. You are mine. Every note, every breath, every tear. You belong to the throne.” He says as he took your shoulders violently on his grasp.

The sheer, immovable weight of his obsession finally crushed the last of your defiance. The rage vanished, leaving only a hollow, terrifying realization: there was no bargaining with a man who saw your freedom as a threat to his existence.

Your knees buckled. You didn't just cry; you broke. A ragged, soul-deep sob escaped your throat as you collapsed toward the floor, your hands coming up to cover your face.

The second your tears hit the marble, the monster vanished.

Jestyn went into an immediate, frantic crisis mode. The red glow in his eyes died out, replaced by a look of pure, agonizing alarm. He was on the floor in an instant, his large black hands shaking as he reached out to "cushion your fall," pulling you against his chest.

“No, no—Y/N, stop,” he murmured, his voice now a frantic, broken whisper as he pressed his lips against your temple. “I am sorry. I didn't mean... please, don't cry. My Songbird, look at me. I’m here. I’ve got you.”

You stayed there, weeping into his silk tunic, hating the way your heart still sought comfort from the very predator who had just destroyed your world.

The Solemn Sanctuary

The grand dinner hall, once filled with the scent of roasted meats and floral tea, now felt like a tomb. Your sobs eventually died down into ragged, exhausted breaths, leaving you limp in the King’s arms. You were still on the floor, the cold marble beneath you forgotten as you leaned against the velvet-covered plates of his chest.

Jestyn didn't move. He remained on the floor with you, his large black hand cupping the back of your head with a tenderness that was almost more terrifying than his rage. He had shifted entirely into that solemn, quiet mode—the version of him that was too afraid to speak for fear of shattering you again.

“I am sorry,” he whispered again, his voice barely a vibration against your temple. “I will not ask you to sing tonight. Your tears... they are a melody I never wished to compose.”

He stood up slowly, lifting you into his arms as if you were made of spun glass. You were too exhausted to fight, your head falling naturally into the crook of his neck. As he carried you back toward your imperial chamber, you felt his grip tighten slightly every time your breath hitched—a silent, involuntary reflex of a man who feared you were still slipping away.

When he reached your room, he didn't hand you over to Mary or the other maids. He dismissed them with a sharp, silent glare, carrying you to the massive four-poster bed himself. He laid you down among the silk pillows, but he didn't leave.

He sat on the edge of the mattress, his twin crimson eyes now soft and shadowed with a lingering guilt. He reached out, his thumb trailing a slow, rhythmic path along the back of your hand.

“Rest now, my Songbird,” he murmured. “I shall be near. I will not let the darkness take you.” He says as he tucks your hair behind your ear.

As you drifted into a heavy, sorrowful sleep, the final image in your mind was of the King sitting motionless in the candlelight, watching over you like a guardian ghost. You hated him for the cage, hated him for the tears, and yet... as his cold fingers remained linked with yours, you felt that treacherous, magnetic pull anchoring you to him.

You were no longer the noble heir of a great house. You were a masterpiece in the private gallery of a King, and as the moon climbed over the imperial room, you realized with a shiver of both dread and desire that you finally belonged nowhere else.

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Author's Note